


Some Good Deeds

by EllieSaxon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gay Sherlock, Getting to Know Each Other, John is a good samaritan, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Case Fic, POV Alternating, Physical Therapy, Questionable First Kiss, Sherlock is his usual reckless self, Strangers to Friends, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, bi john, or at least confessions of feelings, some smut at the very end, the mildest of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-02 17:34:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 46,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12731157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieSaxon/pseuds/EllieSaxon
Summary: Since the moment he returned home from Afghanistan with a tremor and psychosomatic limp, John Watson's life had been boring. Nothing ever happened to him, that is until a house exploded right before his eyes, he saved a life, and met a fascinating man by the name of Sherlock Holmes who wanted him as a flatmate. Who knew going to look at a dilapidated flat would cause John's life to never be boring again?





	1. The Man in the Coat

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all you lovely lads, ladies, and everything in between!
> 
> Well here it is, the long talked about Good Samaritan AU! If you've seen my Tumblr, you know the struggle this has been. I started the outline in February, started writing in March, and finally finished mid November! But in my defense, during those 8/9 months, I did work full time, wrote two journal articles, and wrote and defended my doctoral dissertation. 
> 
> In all honestly, writing this was the most relaxing and cathartic thing I could have done at the time. When the stress got to me, I'd write a few lines of this, and I'd feel so much better. So while this may not even be my best work, I love it to bits.
> 
> Now, a little about this fic. It was inspired in part by a news article I read about a woman who was injured in an accident, and ended up falling in love and marrying the first responder who saved her life (even though, in her words, he was a bit of a pain in the ass when he visited her in the hospital.) Well, obviously I thought what Johnlock would do in this type of situation, and this fic was born. I did ask my old roommate who is an occupational therapist about standard PT procedure, but that's about the extend of my research. I'm not a physical therapist, so take anything that happens with a generous grain of salt (though feel free to correct me, I'm always open to that kind of stuff.)
> 
> That being said, this has not been beta'd or brit-picked. I've edited as best I could, but please forgive any typos or Americanisms. And again, please let me know if you spot an edit that needs to be made.
> 
> Alrighty, I hope you enjoy!!
> 
> Ellie/Jens xx

“Well this will make for one excellent entry to the blog. ‘I went to look at a new flat today, and I’m pretty sure it’s only available because not even the rats and cockroaches want to live there.’ Why the hell does Ella think anyone would be interested in reading about how I pass my pathetic days? Why does she think _I’d_ be interested in recording my days? Does she want me to relive them? What the hell is that supposed to accomplish?” John grumbled bitterly to himself like a crazy person, hobbling down the front stoop of the run-down terraced house. His current – and temporary – bedsit was depressing, but at least it wasn’t one moldy baseboard away from being condemned. He’d just have to keep looking.

 

John was still a few streets away from the main road, his thoughts still focused on useless blog entries and horrible living arrangements, when almost out of nowhere a man came barreling past him in a full sprint, nearly knocking John to the ground.

“Arsehole!” John called after the man just as the man disappeared into a dilapidated looking abandoned house. Shaking it off, and gripping his cane tighter, John had just started walking again when there were shouts for him to “Move, move. Get out of the way!”, and a second man came racing past him, his long coat billowing behind him like a cape as he followed the first man into the house.

That settled it, he was not going to look for any more places to live in that neighborhood, the risk of being runover was far too high. No sooner had the thought formed in his head, than the first man burst back out of the house moments before the relative quiet of the street was obliterated by a defining boom, and the house was engulfed in flames. For a few heart-stopping moments, John was back in Afghanistan with shells falling around him, enemy combats around every corner, and his men in desperate need of his skills.

No.

No, he wasn’t in Afghanistan anymore. This was London, he was in London. He was in London, and there was an explosion. There was an explosion, and a house was on fire…The second man!

John saw only one man leave the house before the explosion happened. The second man, the one with the coat was still in there.

Not taking the time to think, John yelled at one of the bystanders who had appeared to call for help, and then, moving purely on instinct, charged into the house.

The heat was intense, more intense than anything he’d felt before. Flames licked at the crumbling walls, and the air was already getting thick with smoke, so much so that John had to cover his mouth and nose in order to even breathe. His eyes starting to water, John had to squint to be able to see, but he had to keep going, he had to find the man in the coat. It didn’t matter if he was home in London and no longer on the battlefields of Afghanistan, John never left a man behind, he couldn’t. He had to find the man in the coat.

Going slowly, John carefully made his way further into the house, keeping his eyes peeled and his ears open as he moved from room to room. He was just starting to give up, thinking that maybe the man escaped out a back door or window, when he heard a faint moan and what sounded like coughing coming from the kitchen.

Part of the ceiling had collapsed, and there under a fallen beam was the man in the coat. His dark hair was covered in dirt and ash, and on his face, a mix of soot and blood.

“Where are you hurt?!” John asked, dropping down next to the man, his voice calm and steady from years of experience.

“My leg.” The man gasped, coughing and choking. The flames were encroaching fast and the smoke was getting even thicker. “I think… I think my leg is broken.”

“Ok, alright. What about your neck and your back, did you feel like anything got crushed?”

“No, just… just my leg.”

"And do you know if there’s anyone else in the building?”

“Don’t… don’t think so.” The man’s cough was getting worse, his voice was getting weaker, his eyes started losing focus.

“Hey! Hey, stay with me, alright. I need you to stay focused, I need you to stay awake. Can you tell me your name?”.

“Sher –” the man attempted to say before another coughing fit took him. “Sherlock.”

“Hi, Sherlock. I’m John, and I’m going to get you out of here, ok?”

“Joh…” The man’s eyes – Sherlock’s eyes – were wide with panic, and he was griping John’s wrist harder than John thought possible given the circumstances. “Don’t leave me here. I don’t want to –” Sherlock gave one final gasp, his eyes rolled back in his head, his grip slackened, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

“Shit!” This was not good, John needed to get Sherlock out immediately.

John couldn’t say for certain how he did it, perhaps he had maintained some of his strength from the army, but he managed to shift the beam off of Sherlock’s leg, freeing him from the rubble. Taking as much care with his clearly broken left leg as possible, John lifted Sherlock into a fireman’s carry, and made his way out of the house.

John never left a man behind.

 

Emergency services were already on the scene when John exited the house.

“Male, late-twenties, early-thirties. Definite break to the left femur, probable breaks to the left tibia and or fibula, all of which I may have exacerbated. Possible crush injuries. No sign of spinal injuries. A contusion to his head. Definite smoke inhalation. He was conscious and talking up until only a few minutes ago.” John managed to rattle off through a coughing fit, to the paramedics who rushed up to them to take Sherlock from him. “He was trapped under a fallen ceiling beam, the fire was spreading, I had to get him out.”

“You did the right thing, sir,” said one of the paramedics as his partner loaded Sherlock, already strapped to a spinal-board, into the back of one of the waiting ambulances. “Do you know his name?”

“He said it was Sherlock, but I didn’t get a last name.”

“That’s fine. We’re taking him to King’s College.” The paramedic said, signaling to the second ambulance. “You need to checked out too.”

“No, I’m really alri –” John started, but an oxygen mask was already being trust over his nose and mouth, and another paramedic was forcing him into the back of the second ambulance to examine him.

~***~

As it turned out, the paramedics insisted John go to the hospital as a precaution. He had a cut to his forehead – a bit of debris must have fallen on him – and he sustained some minor burns to his hands whilst lifting the beam off of Sherlock. Honestly, he really hadn’t noticed at the time. But now John was sat in the waiting room of King’s College’s A&E, having been given the all clear – he could have told them that already – giving his statement.

“I really didn’t get that good of a look at the first man, only for a few seconds as he was running past me and when he ran out of the house.” John said to the young police constable.

“Well whatever you can remember. We think we know who it was, but we just need confirmation.”

“Yeah, right, ok.” John closed his eyes to better picture the man, he really did only get a glimpse. “Well, he was maybe mid to late forties. He looked clean, he was dressed casually but it didn’t look like he was sleeping rough, or anything. Stocky, maybe two or three inches taller than me. Balding, reddish-brown, kinda brassy hair. Oh, and he had a goatee.”

“Yep, that sounds like who we’re looking for.” The constable sighed. “Thank you very much, Mr. Watson, you’ve been very helpful.”

“Glad I could help. So, um, who is this guy, what did he do? Other than blow up that house, that is?” John asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“I’m sorry, but that’s part of an ongoing police investigation, and we’re not making any public statements at this time.”

“Oh, no I get it, yeah. Forget I asked. What about the other guy, Sherlock? Do you know how he’s doing?”

“No clue. You’re going to have to talk with Lestrade over there, he’d probably know.” The constable said, nodding towards a grey-haired man sitting at the end of the row of seats staring intently at his phone.

John waited a few moments until it looked like the man was done with whatever he was doing, before going over to take the seat opposite him. “Excuse me, are you a Mr. Lestrade?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, I’m DI Lestrade.” Ah, a detective inspector, probably the man in charge of the investigation. “How can I help?”

“Yeah, I was told you might know what’s going on with Sherlock, the man they brought in from the house explosion.”

“I can’t say I know much at the moment, other than he’s been taken in for surgery.” The DI sighed, sounding weary. “I’m sorry, but do you mind if I ask you how you know Sherlock and why you’re interested?”

“Oh, sorry. I’m John, John Watson,” John said, offering Lestrade his bandaged hand. “I’m the one who pulled him out of the building. I was just hoping to hear what was going on, wanted to know if he was going to be ok.”

“You’re the one…” Lestrade just stared at John for a few seconds before suddenly grabbing the offered hand in both of his. “Oh, well thank God you were there! Really, you probably saved his life, who knows what would have happened had you not been there. Ah, sorry, I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He added, just registering the bandages.

“What? Oh, no.” Actually, it did smart a bit, but clearly this DI was more than just lead investigator. John didn’t want to pile anything on him at the moment. “No, I’m fine, Detective. Really.”

“Well, sorry if I did. And you can call me Greg. I mean, technically I’m still here in an official capacity, but also I’m that idiot’s emergency contact, so...”

“Oh. So, are you Sherlock’s…” John wasn’t quite sure how to finish that sentence.

“Friend, handler, babysitter. Take your pick.” Lestrade chuckled and shook his head. “No, I call him in to help on cases every so often, and I kind of took a shine to him over the years. Became his de facto friend I guess.”

“Sherlock’s a detective too?” Well that explained the foot chase.

“Private detective, yeah. He was working a case for me when this whole mess happened. And now I’m going to have to contact his family. God do I hate dealing with his family… I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t be unloading all this on you. I’m tired, and it’s just been an absolute hell of a week. But I’m keeping you, and you probably want to get the hell out of here. Thank you again for all that you did.”

“No thanks necessary, and no apologies needed, I’m used to it. Not the running into burning buildings thing.” John said when Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “I was an army doctor, so I’m kind of used to the high stress situations, and people needed to get things off their chests.”

“Right. Still, not something you want to be dealing with after the day you’ve had, I’ll bet,” chuckled Lestrade. “Listen, I’m sure I can arrange for one of my officers to give you a ride home. It’s really the least we can do after everything you’ve been through, everything you’ve done.”

“I appreciate it,” John smiled, “but actually I was hoping it’d be alright if I hung around a bit longer. I’d kind of like to know how Sherlock is, make sure he’s going to be alright.”

“Hey, the more the merrier, I always say. But don’t feel compelled or anything. If you’ve been cleared to leave, feel free to leave.”

“Nah, you know doctors, we never can leave a patient while status is unknown.”

“Not all doctors. You’re a good man, Dr. Watson. A good man.” Lestrade hummed.

“Please, call me John.”

“You’re a good man, John.”

 

For about the next hour and a half, John sat in relative silence with Lestrade – well, John was silent, Lestrade conferred with his officers about whatever his case was – until a doctor finally came out to speak with Lestrade. Feeling a bit awkward and out of place, John just hung back, though still within earshot.

“Mr. Holmes’s left leg was broken in several places, so we had to perform what is known as an open reduction and internal fixation to set it.” The doctor explained. “Essentially, screws and metal plates were inserted into and along the bones, fixing them in place and allowing them to properly heal.”

Alright, that was fairly common practice for those kind of injuries, John thought. Sherlock’s recovery was bound to be hell, but people did it all the time.

“The good thing is,” the doctor continued, “he won’t have to deal with a cast or anything, just a brace to offer extra support and protection. He’ll be able to keep the incisions clean, and shower normally after a few days.”

“Ok, alright.” Lestrade nodded. “And what about any other injuries. His head? And he was trapped in a burning building…”

“Yes, he did sustain a minor concussion, but there appears to be no damage to his brain. His head will no doubt be fine, but we are monitoring it nevertheless.”

“That’s good, that’s good. Am I allowed to go back and see him, we do need to get a statement from him about what happened this afternoon.”

John frowned to himself as he listened to the conversation going on before him. Was getting a statement really DI Lestrade’s first priority? Sherlock – whose surname as Holmes apparently – had just undergone surgery, surely any statement could wait. Clearly detective inspectors with Scotland Yard were as bad as ex-army doctors, they couldn’t turn ‘the job’ off.

“Not at the moment no, we had to treat him for some burns along his trunk, so we have him sedated and he’ll probably be out until tomorrow morning. Again, the burns are nothing to be too concerned about.” The doctor reassured Lestrade, and John would have been lying if he said he didn’t feel a spike of worry for the strange private detective. “They’re fairly mild, only just bordering on second degree. Most likely from the initial blast and heat exposure, rather than the actual flame. They could have been far worse had he remained in the building for much longer, but he’s going to be just fine.”

 

John waited until Lestrade finished talking with the doctor before asking the DI to let him know if he would be needed for anything else officially – identifying a suspect, giving testimony, whatever – and then left for home. John had done his duty, Sherlock had made it through surgery, and he was going to be alright. There was really no point in him sticking around any longer, so why did he feel like he was leaving unfinished business? Why did he not want to leave?

~***~

By the time he returned to his beige, boring little flat, John was exhausted. When he awoke that morning, he had no idea that the day would be so long, would take such intense and exciting turns, or be so draining. All John wanted to do was take a shower, re-dress his hands, and crawl into bed to sleep for the foreseeable future. But sleep would not come.

For hours, John laid in bed, tossing and turning, unable to turn is thoughts off. He couldn’t get Sherlock out of his head. He couldn’t stop thinking about Sherlock’s eyes, the fear and panic in them as he clung to John’s arm, begging for him not to leave him, to save him. Not since O’Neil, the first kid rushed in from the battlefield and placed on his table, did a patient stick with him. Like Sherlock, O’Neil had gripped John’s arm and plead with John to fix him because he needed to see his mum again, said that he couldn’t abandon his mum. John had followed O’Neil through his recovery, and had even kept in touch when O’Neil was discharged home. But this was ridiculous, John had been in dozens – if not hundreds – of dangerous, high pressure situations where a patient’s life depended on him, and he didn’t react like this. Hell, Sherlock wasn’t even John’s patient. Sherlock was in the care of other doctors now, he was their responsibility, and he was going to be fine. So why couldn’t John stop thinking about the strange man in a long coat who chases criminals?

Maybe he just needed to check in on him again, see that he was okay for himself. Sherlock had been sedated when he left, so John couldn’t have been one hundred percent certain he had made it out of surgery without complications. It was professional curiosity, that was all. Like O’Neil, Sherlock was the first patient – sort of patient – John had helped upon starting a new period in his life, and John just wanted to see it though. He would just go back to the hospital in the morning, see with his own eyes that Sherlock really had pulled through without any lasting damage, and it would be all sorted and John could go on with his boring life.

~***~

“Hi, I’m looking for a patient, and was told he’s on this floor.” John said, putting on his most charming, easy-going doctor smile. “I was wondering if you could direct me to Sherlock Holmes’s room?”

“And may I ask who’s asking?” The nurse sighed, sounding a bit annoyed at being interrupted from her charting, but clearly started to look up Sherlock’s information all the same.

“Of course, my apologies. I’m Dr. John Watson, I’m the doctor who brought him in last night.” Technically true. “I can’t say I’m too familiar with this hospital, I’m usually over at Bart’s.” Or at least he used to be over at Bart’s while still in training, but she didn’t need to know that.

“Oh, I don’t have you listed as one of Mr. Holmes’s doctors. Will you be taking part in his care here?” The nurse asked, scanning Sherlock’s chart.

“No, no. I’ll leave that in your team’s capable hands. I’m just wanted to check in with him, see how he was doing.”

The nurse snorted. “Well good luck with that.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing, nothing. Mr. Holmes is in room fifty-seven. It’s just at the end of the hall on the left. Oh, and Dr. Watson,” The nurse said, stopping John just as he was about to walk away, “just as a bit of warning, he’s been rather irritable since he woke up this morning, so I’m not sure how amiable he’ll be to visitors.”

Christ, John thought, what the hell was he about to walk into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you know what I love (other than kittens, popcorn, and pizza)? Reader comments and corrections! So why don't you leave some, and make me all warm and fuzzy.


	2. Might Be Interesting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock had been blown up and nearly crushed to death, but that was nothing compared to being trapped in a hospital bed. Now if only something or someone would come along and ease the boredom...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introductions are made, and interests are piqued.
> 
> You'll notice the chapter count increased from 15 to 17. I did't write two more chapters, just while I was reading the whole thing over, I realized some chapters worked better split in two.

_Dull. Dull. Stupid. Dull. Boring. Predictable_

Sherlock could feel his mind atrophying with every passing second as he flipped through the channels, searching for something – anything – to occupy him while he was trapped in bed with a bulky metal cage around his left leg. What passed for daytime entertainment painted a very grim picture of the state of today’s society. Then there was Lestrade coming to “check-in” on him and take his statement, then not even bothering to tell him about any new cases, or at the very least, bring him a laptop or new phone – his was damaged in the fire. And the pain meds were absolutely no help. Sure they dulled the pain in his leg and torso – not fully since he wasn’t allowed ‘the good stuff’ –  but they also made his head feel fuzzy, and did nothing to end the unending, all-consuming boredom. Honestly, this was almost worse than being crushed and trapped in a burning building.

It was a quiet knocking on the door frame that finally roused Sherlock from his sulk enough to turn his head, where he found a blond man standing in the doorway.

“Oh dear God, another one!?” The checkered button down shirt, the chino trousers, it was like they all wore damn uniform. “How many of you people are they going to send to inspect me?”

“I’m sorry?” The man frowned, his steps faltering. “What people?”

“Doctors!” Sherlock groaned. “Wait… no.” He recognized this man. “You’re not a doctor… I mean, you are, but… Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Sorry, what?”

Was that the only word this man knew? “I asked, Afghanistan or Iraq. Where did you serve, in Afghanistan, or in Iraq? RAMC if I’m not mistaken.”

“RAMC, yes. And it was Af – Afghanistan.” Oh the look on his face. He was so confused, this was fun! “How could you possibly know that I was an –”

Sherlock grinned. “An army doctor? Child’s play. And I didn’t know, I saw.”

“You saw?” The man stepped further into the room, though not up close to Sherlock’s bed. But still, he hadn’t run out the door, so that was a good sign.

“Yes, I saw. You took advantage of the hand sanitizer dispenser outside my room, I saw you rubbing it in and I can smell it from here, so that tells me you’re most likely medical personnel. You’re a doctor and not a nurse because you looked at my chart first upon entering the room. Doctors always look at the charts first to acquaint or reacquaint themselves with the patient’s case. Nurses look to the patient first, as they tend to already have all the particulars memorized, and the patients themselves are the priority.” It felt good to use his brain again.

“And that I served in the army? That I was stationed in the Middle East?”

“Simple. Your haircut, and the way you hold yourself says military. I know you were abroad because your face is tanned, but there does not appear to be any tan lines above your wrists. No one wears long sleeves whilst holidaying in the sun. Not to mention you’re acclimatized to danger and have a therapist who correctly thinks your limp is psychosomatic. Not really a giant leap, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not to sound like a broken record,” the man chuckled, “but how did you know, how did you _see_ , that I’m acclimatized to danger?”

“Surely you can figure that one out on your own.”

“No, tell me.”

“You would have to be in order to run into a burning building to save a complete stranger.” Sherlock said, his grin broadening into a smirk. “Oh, and before you ask, I know your limp is psychosomatic because it was far more pronounced and you used a cane when I first saw you, now it’s barely noticeable and there’s no cane in sight.”

The man just stared at him, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he spoke. “That… was amazing.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to stare. No one had said that before. “Do you think so?” he asked after a few moments.

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary.”                                               

“Oh, it’s just not what I expected. That’s not what people usually say.”

“And what do people usually say?”

“‘Piss off’… mostly.”

At that, the man started to laugh, and funnily enough, Sherlock found himself joining in.

“So you obviously have some idea of who I am.” The man said when his laughter eventually subsided.

“Come now,” Sherlock chuckled, “it’s pretty hard to forget the face of the man who saved your life not twenty-four hours ago.”

“I guess you’re right.” The man smiled back –  a warm smile, an easy smile – and offered a hand. “John Watson, pleasure to meet you.”

“Sherlock Holmes. And believe me, John Watson, the pleasure is all mine.” It appeared that the day might just be looking up.

“So tell me, is there a particular reason you’ve come by?” Sherlock asked, releasing John’s hand after a few moments of them quietly smiling at each other.

“Oh, yes. I just wanted to see how you were doing, wanted to make sure you were going to be alright. You were out for the night when I left yesterday.”

Had he stuck around? “Well as you can see, I’m bandaged, and confined to bed by this infernal contraption.” Sherlock said, waving at the cage encircling his leg. “But, I’ve been assured by my doctors that I will make a full recovery.”

“Well that’s good news, right?”

“I suppose.” Sherlock sighed. “Though I am quite uncomfortable at the moment.”

“Oh, is there anything I can do for you? Do you want me to page the nurse to get you something?” John sounded genuinely concerned. Odd.

“No, no. Mostly I’m just terribly bored laying here with nothing to distract me… Actually, do you have any important plans for the day?” Sherlock asked, getting an idea. “Anywhere you need to be?”

“Can’t say I do. Why?”

“As I said, it’s terribly boring being stuck in this room with nothing but daytime television for company. Normally I prefer being left on my own, but it might be nice having someone to talk to, at least for a bit.”

“And you’d like to talk to me?”

“If you feel so inclined. You run into burning buildings after complete strangers, after all. You might be interesting.”

“I’m inclined.” John chuckled and pulled a chair up next to Sherlock’s bed. “And you chase people into abandon buildings that blow up, so you might be interesting too.”

Oh yes, the day was definitely looking up.

~***~

What started out as staying to talk for a bit, turned into several hours of some of the most enjoyable conversation Sherlock had had with another person – a _regular_ person at that – for quite some time.

John told him all about his time abroad serving in several combat hospitals, and corrected the very few deductions Sherlock got partially wrong. He had signed up to serve shortly after completing his training at St. Bart’s hospital, and attained the rank of Captain before a bullet to the shoulder invalided him home to London. He was now living off an army pension while half-heartedly looking for work. John didn’t actually tell him those last bits, but it didn’t take a genius of Sherlock’s caliber to figure them out.

Apparently Lestrade had already told John a little about Sherlock, but John wanted to know more, asking Sherlock question after question about his work and what he was doing that nearly got himself blown up. Sherlock explained what being a ‘consulting detective’ meant, that he was the only one in the world, and that Scotland Yard would have been lost without him. John seemed skeptical at first, laughing when Sherlock said this, but the more Sherlock told him, the more obvious it became that he believed him. John’s eyes were nearly the size of saucers as Sherlock explained to him about his most recent case, that he was chasing after the Lambeth Bomber.

There had been a series of relatively small explosions in various council estates in the area over the past few months. They usually only blew out a few flats, all of which empty, and no one had been hurt, but they had been front page news for a month. Lestrade had been at his wits end as part of an inter-agency task force, until he finally came to his senses and called Sherlock in.

“So you’re telling me that was actually him?!” John gasp, leaning so far out of his chair Sherlock thought he was in very real danger of falling off. “Shit, if I had known that, I’d have tackled him when he ran past me!”

"That certainly would have saved us both a lot of time and injury.” Sherlock said, eyeing the bandaging around John’s palms.

“But how did you figure out it was him?”

“It actually took me a few days, I’m ashamed to say, but once I saw it, it was so simple. All the property management companies traced back to the same owner.” Sherlock explained. “Sure, there were a number of proxy companies, and fake leads, but eventually I shifted through it all, and it was right there. A quick background search on the owner revealed she was in debt and desperately needed the insurance pay offs to stay out of the poor house. And that her younger sister had an ex-husband who used to work demolition and served time for arson.”

“And that was him? She hired her ex-brother-in-law to blow up some of her flats all for an insurance pay out?”

“Never underestimate what people will do for money, John. After sex, it’s British crime’s leading motivate.” People really were shockingly transparent. “Anyway, I was following the brother-in-law, hoping to get some concrete evidence, when he spotted me, and well… you know the rest.”

“Yeah, you became the evidence!” John snickered. “Sorry, that was kind of in poor taste. No offence.”

“Don’t apologize, it’s true. Lestrade told me that he’s now in custody, and I’m fine – give or take – so I’d say that’s a win.”

“Pretty risky win.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s part of the job.”

“What I don’t get,” John said, shaking his head at Sherlock’s nonchalance, “is how Scotland Yard and god knows who else, failed to put it all together after working on it for an entire month, and then you did it in only a couple of days.”

Sherlock just cocked an eyebrow, smirking a little. “I did say they’d get nowhere without my help.”

“They really wouldn’t. The way you figured that out… Fantastic, Sherlock. You know that, right? Really, really unbelievable. Amazing.”

Not used to getting such praise from anyone other than his parents, Sherlock felt himself blush. God, it felt amazing to have his work actually appreciated for once. He liked this John Watson fellow.

 

The hours ticked by, and the conversation continued to flow. The crushing boredom from that morning became a distant memory. Not even the occasional poking and prodding by his doctor and nurses could dampen Sherlock’s mood. When it was time for a check, John would simply get up and give them some space, only to return and pick up the conversation where it left off.

“Do you have any plans for tomorrow?” Sherlock asked when John got up to leave. Apparently he had plans for an early dinner with his sister – alcoholic, in the midst of a divorce, hoping to still have time to go barhopping and find a partner for the night after meeting with John – and he didn’t want to be late.

“Nothing set in stone, no.”

“Then would you mind coming back to visit again? It’s just… I rather like having the company.” Being confined to a hospital bed was enough to drive him mad, but having someone there – having John there – made it not so bad, almost bearable. “And I’d like to see those old field journals you were talking about.”

“Ah, the real reason you’re putting up with my company.” John said, rolling his eyes dramatically. “But yeah, I think that can be arranged. I have something in the morning, but I can come by right after.”

John grinned and gave a wave as he left, and Sherlock felt himself smiling back. It wasn’t until his nurse stopped by for her end of shift check and commented on his ‘new mood’ that Sherlock realized the small smile had yet to leave his face. He dropped it immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who has two thumbs, thinks she can speak French but really can't, and loves getting comments and/or corrections?
> 
> This moi!


	3. An Invaluable Opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the second day in a row, John returns to visit Sherlock in hospital, excited for the chance to get to know the man a little better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, with my typical every other day posting schedule, I'm due to post Chapter 4 on Monday, but I'll be going out of the country that day and going to be gone until the end of the month. That said, I will be bringing my computer with me, and the place I'm staying has wifi. I'm going to try to keep posting regularly, but please forgive me if it gets wonky once or twice. 
> 
> With that out of the way, please enjoy Chapter 3 and our two favorite instant besties!

For the first time since returning home, John managed to sleep through the night, and not once did he return to the sandy, blood-soaked terrane of Afghanistan. His sleep was blissfully dreamless, and he awoke the next morning refreshed, and actually a little excited for the day. He really had nothing better to do, and he had enjoyed getting to know Sherlock the day before, getting to actually know about the man he’d pulled out of the rubble, knowing the risk he took was definitely worth it. He just had to get through his morning appointment with Ella, and then he could head back to King’s to see Sherlock again.

 

“You’re not using your cane, and your limp is almost entirely gone.” Ella said almost the instant John sat down. “Only last week, you could barely take a step without it. What happened to bring about such a drastic change?” She asked.

“Two days ago I kind of inadvertently got roped into a police investigation; right place, right time sort of thing,” John said, deciding it was best not to tell her about running headfirst into a fire, he didn’t even re-bandage his hands for that very reason. She might focus on his blatant disregard for his own safety, and not the fact that he was attempting to save a life, that he did save a life. “I’m fine, and everyone involved is going to be fine, but I guess I got caught up in the adrenaline, and forgot about the cane. My leg has felt fine, and I haven’t needed it since.”

“That’s wonderful John, really wonderful.” There was a but coming. “But I want you to be careful. The excitement and adrenaline will wear off, and life will go back to normal. This is excellent progress, and even though it happened suddenly, I want you to take the opportunity to channel it into something productive.”

Damn, that woman sure know how to step on a guy’s high, but she was probably right. No, she was definitely right, John had to keep building.

“Of course.” John nodded. “It just feels great to know that I’m not actually stuck anymore, that I actually can get over things.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you from the start.” Ella said with a small smile. “Now I believe in our last session I asked you to start thinking about ideas for how you can put your skills to good use and what to do about finding a job that’s still fulfilling. So, let’s pick up from there, shall we?”

~***~

John had arrived outside of Sherlock’s door just in time to catch the tail end of a conversation going on inside the room.

“Alright, and you’re sure I can’t do anything else for you, or get you anything?” came a woman’s voice. It was soft, and full of caring.

“Anything I might want you to get me would not be allowed and be promptly taken away by the staff. I’m fine for now.”

“Well if you’re sure…”

“Yes Molly, I am. Now don’t you have to be at work or something? While those in your charge may be late, you shouldn’t be.”

“Yeah, alright, alright, I’m going. But call me if you need anything, anything at all.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Sherlock said with a sigh, he sounded annoyed.

“Ok, Sherlock, I’ll try to pop by to visit again soon.”

John didn’t quite catch Sherlock response, as just then a pretty young woman – Molly evidently – walked out of Sherlock’s room, and nearly collided with him.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, taking a step back. “Excuse me, I didn’t see you there.”

“That’s alright, I probably shouldn’t have just been standing here.” John replied.

“It’s both our faults then.” Molly said with a nervous giggle. “I’ll just be off, and I’ll watch where I’m going this time.”

“Good plan.” John smiled, watching as she rushed off.

He waited a few seconds before turning back to Sherlock’s door, and waited another few before knocking. But he had been invited, so…

“Oh God, what now, Molly? I’m totally and completely fine!”

“I’m starting to notice a pattern with you.” John smirked. “The first thing you do when I show up is yell at me. Need I remind you, you asked me to stop by?”

“Oh, John, it’s you.” Sherlock said, his exasperation disappearing as a smile spread across his face. Alright, so John was still welcome. “I’m sorry, I thought you were Molly coming back.”

“Nope, I’m definitely not a Molly.” John chuckled. Looking at Sherlock, John could tell he looked much better than he had the day before. He was propped up in bed, his face had more color, and the cage around his leg had been removed and replaced with a hard-plastic looking brace. He was also no longer in the flimsy hospital issue gown, but a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants with one leg cut to accommodate the brace

“Clearly. I understand I should be grateful that others care about my wellbeing,” Sherlock sighed, “but there are only so many ways I can say she doesn’t need to do anything.”

John nodded, humming absentmindedly as he took a seat. “I guess, but she seems nice. Is she your girlfriend?” He asked. Sherlock did sound a little rude and dismissive of her, but that could have just been him tired as a result of his injuries… or he was just kind of a crap boyfriend.

“Is Molly my girlfriend?” Sherlock looked taken aback. It wasn’t that outlandish of a question, they were both young, both attractive, she clearly cared about him. “No, she does post-mortems and often slips me interesting things when she comes across them. I guess she’d call us friends.”

“Ah.”

“I can’t be bothered with a girlfriend. Women, not particularly my area.”

Women weren’t his area?

…Oh!

“Oh, right… Do you have a boyfriend then? Which is… which is fine, by the way.” God, could he sound any more like the ‘ _I’m totally open minded, not a bigot at all’_ guy? Harry would kick his arse if she could hear him, it wasn’t like same-sex couples were a foreign concept to him after all.

“I know it’s fine.”

“So you have a boyfriend then?”

“Not at present, no.” Sherlock’s eyes never left John’s has he spoke, his voice calm and smooth, if a bit sharp. “I find I’m more committed to my work these days. Romantic entanglements just distract me.”

“Focusing on your career, I get that, yeah.” John chuckled, trying to ease the tension. This was not how he envisioned the day going when he first woke up. “I’m the same, or I was until…” he trailed off, not really wanting to finish that sentence, _‘until I got shot in the shoulder and my career ended.’_

“Well now that we have my preferences established, did you bring your old notes like I asked?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. I got them.” John reached into the bag he and slung across his shoulder, pulling out a couple of battered journals. “I don’t know exactly what you’d glean from them, they’re just my old procedure logs.”

“John, you must be joking. A firsthand account of modern battlefield surgery, why wouldn’t I want to read though that?” Even while admonishing John, Sherlock sounded almost giddy. “To see the way current procedures can be adapted when supplies are lacking and conditions are precarious, this is an invaluable opportunity!”

“Whatever you say. So should I just leave you be to get cracking at this ‘invaluable opportunity’ then?”

Sherlock looked at him like he was being an idiot.

“Of course not. I can read those later to stave off the boredom when you have to leave.”

And just like that, all earlier awkwardness evaporated.

 

* * *

 

The day cracked on in much the same way as the day before. John asked about some of Sherlock’s old cases, then tried to get him interested in some old movie he found flipping through the channels.

They were in the midst of a heated debate over when stalking someone’s social media accounts crosses the line over to just plain stalking, when Sherlock’s doctor showed up with one of the hospital’s physical therapist in tow. It was time to discuss his physical therapy plans. John once again offered to leave to give him some privacy, but Sherlock insisted he stay, he found John to be a calming presence. So John just sat quietly out of the way, reading one of the newspapers Molly brought by, while the therapist outlined her plan.

“I don’t care how intensive or strenuous it is, I just want to be back on my feet and back to normal as soon as possible.” Sherlock said before the therapist had even gotten a full sentence out.

“Well I’m happy to hear that you’re ready and willing to work,” the therapist – Meredith something – said cheerily. Ugh, that’s just what he needed, another chipper person in his life. “But you have to understand that this isn’t going to happen overnight. A full recovery is going to take several months, and it’s going to be several months of hard work.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Sherlock groaned. It took normal people several months to recover, but Sherlock was always quicker to heal than _normal_ people. He deliberately ignored the pointed look John was giving him behind the therapist’s back. “Just tell me what we have to do, and when we can get started.”

“Straight to business I see, that’s just what I like to hear.” Meredith looked over his chart for a few moments before looking back up at him. “It looks like they want to keep you here for another four or five days to be sure you’re healing properly and that your body doesn’t reject the metal plates, but we’re not going to let that stop us. It’s imperative that we get to work ASAP!”

As soon as possible, that’s what he had just said. How simple was this woman?

“Your recovery is going to be a three-stage process. The first stage is going to be while you’re here in hospital. We’ll be doing some pretty simple leg exercises; mostly just to get them moving to prevent any possible atrophy, and make sure to maintain proper circulation.” Meredith continued, unaware of Sherlock’s dwindling faith in her abilities. “We’ll also get you standing up, and hopefully get you taking a few steps. I also see that you of some minor burns, so we’ll have to be mindful of those.”

“I hardly notice the burns, they’re fine. What’s going to happen after I’m released?”

“Once your doctors give you the all clear, then you’ll move to stage two, which is a more intensive twice daily therapy schedule.”  

“And how long will that be?”

“It varies from patient to patient, anywhere from a couple weeks to a couple months.” Two weeks it was. “Now we can arrange for you to go to a residential in-patient rehabilitation facility for the duration of this phase in your therapy –”

“No!” Sherlock exclaimed, there was no way he was ever going to stay in another rehab facility, not if he could help it. “There has to be another option.”

“That’s fine. I can give you some names of therapists who can come to your home if you prefer. Many patients actually prefer in-home treatment. There just needs to be a big enough space for them to set up their equipment.” Meredith seemed unfazed by Sherlock’s little outburst. John however, was giving him another look. Didn’t matter, he’d deal with that later.

“That shouldn’t be an issue.” If all the furniture was pushed against the walls, his sitting room should be large enough. Maybe if he offered to reimburse her, he could persuade Mrs. Hudson to hire someone to do it before he returned.

“Good, good.” Meredith smiled again. Sherlock made a mental note to make sure whoever his next physical therapist was, he or she was not going to smile so much. “Once your therapist feels comfortable enough with your progress, you will then move onto the third and final stage of recovery, which is only a few sessions a week instead of everyday. Your therapist will discuss what they think is best when the time comes. Again, this can take place at your home, or in an out-patient facility. Personally, I would recommend going to the facility for stage three, patients who get out and about tend to do better than those who remain cooped up.”

“As long as I don’t have to remain in the facility, I’ll be fine.” And he would be fine, it was being stuck there, not able to leave, that had bothered him before. He’d be fine.

“Excellent! I will just write up our full plan and get you a copy. But before I do that, I think it’s time we get started! I’m going to need you to lay back for me, and tell me the second something starts to hurt. There’s obviously going to be some pain, but we don’t want to be counterproductive, so I need to know when, where, and how bad the pain is.”   

A stranger manhandling and manipulating his broken leg, this should be fun. At least John was getting a bit of a laugh behind his paper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Hey! Ho Ho!... I can't think of a rhyme to go here. Maybe you can think of something, why don't you pop it down in the comments along with your thoughts or any corrections! *wink*
> 
> As a treat, here's a mini-teaser for next time: John's daily visits continue, and he may or may not meet a mysterious someone (because you all TOTALLY can't figure out who that could possibly be)


	4. A Happy Announcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After getting to know Sherlock, John gets to know someone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently at the airport, sitting at my gate with an hour and a half to spare. Might as well give you guys Chapter 4 on schedule! I'm not sure, but I think this is the longest chapter of the fic, and it's the one everyone knew was coming. Hopefully it's got enough of a slight twist on canon, that it's not too much of a snoozefest.
> 
> Enjoy!

Once the physical therapist started her session with Sherlock, John went down to the canteen for something to eat, so it wasn’t until one of the nurses popped her head in to tell him that visiting hours were ending, that John got up to actually leave for the evening. The physical therapist’s visit seemed to drain some of Sherlock’s energy – though when asked, he denied it – so they didn’t talk as much, and ended up watching a little telly.

“Same time tomorrow?” Sherlock asked when John got up, looking hopeful. It was almost hard to believe that three days ago, John had no idea who Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes was, it felt like they’d known each other for years, that Sherlock had always been part of his life.

“Definitely.”

~***~

The night wasn’t too cold, and with his leg no longer bothering him, John decided to walk a ways before catching the Tube. So lost was he in thoughts of the day, he and Sherlock never did settle that social media stalking debate, that he almost failed to notice several phones start to ring, only to stop again as he walked past. It wasn’t until the fourth or fifth phone went off that John decided to hell with it, and answered.

“Hello?”

“Doctor Watson,” said a man’s voice, crisp and clear through the phone. “There are three security cameras pointed at your phone box. One on the building to your left, one on the building opposite you, and the last on the building to your right. Do you seem them?”

“Who is this? How the hell do you know who I am?” John’s heart raced. Whipping his head around, John looked around and saw that there were in fact three cameras where the voice said they’d be, all looking directly at him.

“Do you see the cameras, Doctor Watson?”

“Yes. Yes I see them.”

“Good, now watch.” Almost immediately all three cameras turn to point in opposite directions, away from the box, away from John.

 “Who are you, how are you doing this?” John demanded.

 Just then a sleek black car pulled up along the curb and a man stepped out to open the back door.

“If you would be so kind as to get into the car, Doctor Watson.” The man on the phone said. “I would make some sort of threat, but I think we both know that would be a waste of our precious time.” And just like that, the line went dead.

John eyed the man holding the door open for him, he was dressed in a suit, but he was large and well built, clearly some form of private security. John recognized ex-military when he saw it. He could probably hold his own for a while, but there was no way he could beat the man if he tried to leg it, and who knew how many others might have been waiting in the wings. So, doing what could prove to be the dumbest thing he could do – and after the last few days, that was saying something – John slid into the empty back of the car. The door had barely closed before the car was speeding off to God knew where, John just hoped it wasn’t his death.

 

For close to twenty minutes John rode in silence, until the car finally pulled up in front of what looked like a private club, and the man from before, once again opened the door and motioned for him to go inside. Once inside, John was then greeted by another man in a suit who lead him through various hallways, until they reached an ornate oak door. The man rapped three times before quickly scurrying away.

“Come in,” came a voice from inside. It was the man on the phone.

John carefully pushed the door open and found himself in a very posh looking office. Everything from the wood paneling on the walls, to the bookshelves, to the desk looked hand carved, and it all smelled of fine leather and even finer liquor. And there, stood right in the middle of it all was a man who looked even posher than the office. He was tall, wearing a pristine three-piece suit, and not a single dark auburn hair was out of place. 

"Ah, John. So pleased you could join me, please have a seat,” the man said, motioning to one of the two leather wingback chairs facing each other.

“I’d rather stand, if you don’t mind,” John replied, straightening his back and involuntarily assuming parade rest.

"If that’s what you’d prefer.”

“Who are you? What do you want with me?”

"I just wanted to speak with you, Doctor Watson. That’s all.”

“Right,” John nodded, walking further into the room and stopping a few paces short of the man. “You know, I’ve got a phone. It’s not that I don’t like the pageantry of all this, but, uh… you could have just phoned me. On my phone. I’m sure you have the number.”

“Funny, you don’t seem very afraid,” the man said, tilting his head. John fought off the chill running down his spine. He was being sized up, he was being evaluated.

“You don’t seem very frightening.”

At this, the man chuckled, but there wasn’t an ounce of humor in it. “Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t’ you think?”

“Stupidity, yeah,” John huffed before squaring his shoulders. “Listen, I’ve had about enough of this. Either you tell me why I’m here, or I’m walking out that door.”

The man’s smirk dropped, his face hardened, and he leveled John with a look so sharp it could have cut diamond. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock? What did Sherlock have to do with anything? God, what was Sherlock involved in?

“We’re barely connected.” John felt a bit guilty, because that wasn’t quite true. “I just helped him out of that house… two days ago.”

“And yet you’ve been to visit him every day since he’s been in hospital, and I believe you have plans to return tomorrow. Tell me, might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

"Who are you?”

“An interested party.”

“Interested in Sherlock? Why?” John asked, feeling stupidly brave and looking the man up and down. “You’re most definitely not friends.”

“Friends?” The man scoffed. “You’ve met him. How many _friends_ , do you imagine he has?”

“I don’t know, I can think of at least two.” Possibly – hopefully – three, John thought to himself.

“How sweet. I can only assume you are referring to the detective inspector and pathologist.” Christ, this man really was watching Sherlock. “I hate to burst the beautiful illusion you’re building of Sherlock, but he only tolerates them so long as they can provide him with the things he wants, cases and corpses. I am the closest thing to a friend Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

“And what is that?”

“An enemy. In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he’d probably say I’m is arch-enemy. He does so love to be dramatic.”

This time, it was John’s turn to scoff. “Well, thank God you’re above all that.” He said pointedly, looking around the office.

“Hmmm, yes. I guess some similarities are unavoidable,” the man hummed. “Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

“Alright, now I could be wrong here, but I think that’s none of your business.”

“But it could be.”

“No, it really couldn’t.”

Raising his eyebrow, the man walked over to the desk, and began flipping through a file, ostensibly looking something up.

“If you do decide to try to forge a further… _connection_ , with Sherlock, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because you’re not a wealthy man.”

 “So you’ll pay me.”

“Yes.” The man nodded.

“In exchange for what?”

“Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel… uncomfortable with.” The man smirked. “Just tell me what he’s up to.”

“Why?” John asked, his go-to question as of late.

“I worry about him. Constantly.”

“That’s nice.” And highly unlikely. “But I’m going to have to decline.”

“I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

“Don’t bother, I’m not interested.”

“You’re very loyal, very quickly.”

“No,” John said, shaking his head. “I just don’t spy on people for money, or for creepy men who kidnap me off the street.”

“I see.” The man said. A smile flashed across his face, and for a second, it almost looked like one of pride. “Then in that case, we’re done here. Jacobs will drive you home.”

 Not wanting to spend another second in the office, or in the man’s presence, John turned and headed for the door, only to be stopped just before reaching it

“Oh, before you go,” the man said, “when you see Sherlock tomorrow, if you’d be so kind as to give him these. Tell them they’re gifts.” And he handed John a laptop and smartphone.

God, what the hell had he gotten himself into?

 

* * *

 

“So I’m pretty sure I met a friend of yours last night.”

_Right on time_ , Sherlock thought, feeling himself smile as he turned to watch John enter the room.

“A friend?” He frowned, he didn’t have any friends, not really.

“Well, according to him, he’s the closest thing, an enemy.”

Oh, that made more sense. “Which one?”

“Didn’t catch his name. Pretentious prick, pompous office, actually said he’s your _arch-_ enemy.”

“Oh him, he doesn’t matter.” Sherlock said, waving his hand. He was a bit surprised he’d waited that long to show up. “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

John nodded. “Yes.”

“Did you take it?”

“No!”

“Pity.” Sherlock shrugged. “We could have split the fee. Think it through next time.”

“Yeah, alright.” John snorted. “The next time someone kidnaps me, then offers me money to spy on a friend, I’ll be sure say yes.”

“Oh, am I your friend?” Did John want them to be friends? Sherlock couldn’t say he was particularly averse to the idea, it was just… well, he didn’t really expect it.

“I’d say so, yeah.”

“Huh.” Sherlock thought for a moment. “It’s just that I’ve never made a friend so quickly before. Good.” He added with smile.

 “You’re kind of strange, you know that, right?” John chuckled, but there was no malice behind it. He was teasing him, like friends do to each other.

“That’s hardly news, John. But you’re the one who’s friends with me.”

“Maybe I’m kind of strange too.” John grinned and shook his head, before sobering a little. “Seriously though, Sherlock, who did I meet?”

“His name is Mycroft,” Sherlock sighed. Leave it to Mycroft to find a way to butt into everything. “He occupies a minor position in the British Government, which is code for running the British Government from the shadows. Unfortunately for me, he’s also my older brother.”

“Your brother?”

"Yes. He has an almost pathological need to interfere with every aspect of my life, and is incapable of behaving like an even half-way normal human being. I have a theory that my parents found him in a crater somewhere, and decided to do an experiment to see if they could raise him to blend with mankind. They failed of course, but for some reason they still insist he’s part of the family and should be treated as such.”

John started to laugh, and Sherlock soon found himself joining in. Laughing over a joke with a friend – and at Mycroft’s expense – he could get use to this.

“Well pod-person or not,” John said once the giggles subsided, “if he’s your brother, then I don’t have to feel nervous giving you these. He said they’re gifts.” And out from his bag, he pulled Sherlock’s laptop and a brand-new smartphone.

Oh excellent! There were still a few hours until the physical therapist was due, that was more than enough time for the two of them to get into Scotland Yard’s system and see what was going on with the Lambeth Bomber case. After he destroyed the bugs Mycroft no doubt planted. Maybe they could look up some new cases too.

~***~

Everyday Sherlock was in hospital, John came around to visit. Arriving late-morning, he usually stayed until visiting hours ended in the evening. When Sherlock’s physical therapist came, he would leave – he kept insisting Sherlock “needed privacy” – only to come back once the therapist left. Sherlock was usually a little warn out after the therapy sessions, so their afternoons were mostly spent eating the various foods John snuck in from the outside, while jumping from channel to channel, Sherlock nitpicking and pulling apart the shows, while John pretended to be annoyed by said nitpicking.

Lestrade and Molly both stopped by for visits, and both seemed surprised to find John there, but both warmed to him immediately. Sherlock tried – and failed – not to roll his eyes when John talked about “how nice his friends are”, once they’d left. Mrs. Hudson came by as well – treats in hand – and Sherlock got the extra treat of seeing the look of shock and surprise on John’s face when he was enveloped by one of Mrs. Hudson’s shockingly strong hugs. John’s look of shock and surprise when he learned that the elderly woman clinging to him while weeping her thanks for “saving her boy” was not in fact Sherlock’s mother, but his landlady, was the proverbial icing.

Physical therapy improved as well. By the end of his sixth day in hospital, Sherlock was able to stand unaided for short periods of time; his longest time was one minute, but he was determined to improve. He could even take a few steps and move short distances down the hall as long as he had a crutch – either human or artificial – to lean on. Satisfied with the progress he had made during ‘Stage One’, Meredith Whatever-Her-Name gave Sherlock her stamp of approval, and he was to be released the following day. Of course, Sherlock’s imminent release also had one unfortunate side effect, a visit from Mycroft.

“The arrangements have all been made.” Mycroft said, examining his cuticles, acting as if he’d rather be doing anything other than meddling into Sherlock’s affairs. Sherlock wished he would do something other than meddle into his affairs.

“What arrangements?”

“Arrangements for the continuation of your physical therapy regimen.”

“And that has anything to do with you, how?” Sherlock asked.

“Since you won’t go to a facility –”

“You’re damn right!” Sherlock barked. “I’m never stepping foot in another rehabilitation center. Not as long as I have any say in the matter!”

“Since you won’t go to a facility,” Mycroft repeated, staring pointedly at Sherlock, “I have made arrangements for twice daily sessions with a top physical therapist who will come to my home, where you will be staying for the duration of your recovery.”

“Your house?” Sherlock sputtered. “There’s no way in hell I’m going to your house. No, absolutely not,” he shook his head. “I’m going home, back to Baker Street.”

Mycroft’s ‘house’ – if it could even be called a house – was almost as bad as having to go to a facility. No, it was just as bad. It was hard enough trying to escape Big Brother’s watchful eye, he wasn’t going to make it easy by living with him. He fought too hard, for too long, to get out from under Mycroft’s thumb, only to go back voluntarily.    

“Really Sherlock, now is not the time to act like a petulant child. Be reasonable.” Mycroft breathed hard through his nose, he was fighting hard to maintain his composure. Good.

“What is so unreasonable about wanting to return to my home, wanting to recover in familiar surroundings?” Sherlock countered.

“First of all, you live in a cluttered first floor flat of a building with no elevator.”

“Already taken care of. Mrs. Hudson has already said she’s straightened everything up for me, and got someone to rearrange my furniture. As for it being on the first floor, it’s only seventeen steps from the ground floor to my flat. And I only have to get up them once. By the end of the daily in-home therapy, I’ll be strong enough to navigate them better.”

“And your weekly doctor’s appointments?”

“Alright, so that’s two more times I have to go up and down the steps.” Because he was going to complete Stage Two in two weeks. “I’ll take them slow and it can count as an exercise.”

“Alright, Sherlock, but what about day-to-day life?” Mycroft asked, arching a brow. “I can have an assistant on hand to offer aid should something go wrong, you fall, or you just need something. You live alone, and you can’t expect poor Mrs. Hudson to help. As much as I’m sure she’d love to help in any way she can, she’s not as young as she once was, and could hardly lift a grown man should the need arise.” He was already acting as if he’d won. He was wrong.

“Fine,” Sherlock grinned, “John can move in with me.”

“I’m sorry, John can do what?!” John interjected, stepping forward to join the conversation. Sherlock had insisted he stay when Mycroft showed up, but up until that point, he’d stayed quiet and let the brothers talk.

“Be serious, Sherlock.” Mycroft added.

Choosing to ignore his brother, Sherlock instead turned to address John.

“I said that you can move in with me.” He said brightly. “You’re looking for a new place to live anyway, and this is a perfect solution. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.”

“A perfect solution? Me getting to play nursemaid to you, you mean?”

“Of course not.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. Honestly. “I am in need of a flatmate regardless of my temporary medical issues. I was already putting out feelers before I landed myself in here. We clearly get along well enough to co-habitate. Like I said, perfect solution.”

“And it just so happens to coincide with you having temporary medical issues?”

Why was John making this so difficult, could he see how wonderful this was?

“I won’t lie, the timing is fortuitous, but that’s all it is, a coincide.” Sherlock pointedly ignored the look Mycroft gave him from beside John. “If we had met under different circumstances, I would still need a flatmate, you’d still need a new place, and I would have still suggested you take the second room.”

“Really?” John asked, sounding skeptical.

“Yes really.” Sherlock sighed, struggling to keep his exasperation under control. “I assure you I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself when I get home, you will need to do nothing more than any other flatmate. But having a medical professional in the house has the added benefit of assuaging any of my brother’s ridiculous concerns.”

 Mycroft cut in, looking at Sherlock once again like he was still the little boy who wanted live in his ‘Pirates Hideout’ in the trees.

“Concerns over my injured and temporarily lamed brother being alone in his deathtrap of a flat, are hardly ridiculous.”

“It’s not a deathtrap!” Sherlock bit back. “Don’t listen to him, John. It’s in central London, several convenient tube stations, Mrs. Hudson charges a reasonable rent. Sitting room, kitchen, full bath, your own room.” God, he was sounding like a real estate brochure. “Come on, John. What more could you want? And by doing next to nothing, just moving in, you’d be saving me from having to go live with Mycroft.”

John’s mouth twitched, it was almost imperceptible, but Sherlock saw it. “You said it’s on Baker Street?”

"Yes. 221B Baker Street.”

“Yes, alright, fine.” John relented, letting out a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing. “I’ll at least go with you tomorrow and have a look. No guarantees.”

“This is excellent, John. I knew you’d see reason eventually.”  This was fantastic, in one fell swoop, Sherlock had avoided being imprisoned by Mycroft, and found a way to keep John around. “I will call Mrs. Hudson immediately to inform her.”

“I said no guarantees. Let’s just consider this a trial period to see if we work as flatmates.” John said, once again being completely ridiculous. Of course they were going to work as flatmates. John was going to fit in perfectly at 221B.

“Of course, John, of course. A trial period.”

“This is going to be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded. “And you invaded Afghanistan.”

John started to giggle, not laugh, not chuckle, but genuinely giggle. “That wasn’t just me.”

“Still ridiculous, though.” Sherlock laughed, unable to stop himself.

“Yeah, still ridiculous.”

 

* * *

 

So it was decided, John was moving in with Sherlock, he was moving into a flat sight unseen. But it wasn’t like it had to be forever, if they didn’t work as flatmates, or the flat was uninhabitable, he could just move out. He didn’t have to stay, his current bedsit was paid up through the end of next month, it’d be fine. And if did work out, then that was great. He and Sherlock did seem to get along; in the short time they’d known each other, John had grown to really enjoy spending time with the mad detective. It could definitely work.

John had left Sherlock to head back to his flat in order to pack a bag, if he was going to go back with Sherlock the next day he’d need somethings to tide him over. The elevator doors were just about to close when an umbrella was thrust between them, forcing them to reopen and reveal Mycroft Holmes standing there.

“Ah, Doctor Watson, so glad I caught you. Mind if I ride down with you?”

“Be my guest,” John said, stepping off to one side. “But if you’re going to try to talk me into spying on Sherlock for you again, think again.”

“You’ve proven yourself to be a man of great conviction, I wouldn’t dream of it. I should offer a word of warning though. You’ll want to watch out for his black moods, they can be quite trying when they hit. But no, I really just wanted to offer you my congratulations.” Mycroft’s grin simultaneously smug, off-putting, maniacal, and all-knowing all at the same time.

“Congratulations on what?”

“On you moving in with my darling baby brother. It appears we got that happy announcement after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so they were roommates! (Ok, flatmates actually). Next up: MOVE IN DAY! And John gets settled.
> 
> I'm about to be on a 6 hour flight, and you know what would be great? When I land in the Icelandic cold and check my phone, I see one or two lovely comments/corrections from you beautiful people! Not that you have to, no pressure. I'm cool either way (not needy at all)


	5. A Perfect Fit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's finally free of the hospital and John finally sees his new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder, I'm not a physical therapist so anything that goes on during Sherlock's sessions are completely made up, and probably not accurate.

Sherlock’s release from hospital turned out to be far less of a hassle than John expected. A part of him was honestly expecting Mycroft to be there when he showed up, complete with a court order to stay away from Sherlock in hand. As it turned out, it was positively uneventful. The most difficult part was just getting Sherlock to sit still long enough to go through all the discharge instructions. John could understand the feeling of wanting to get out after being cooped up in a hospital room for too long, but Sherlock took it almost to another level.

Even though he wasn’t set to be released until the afternoon – the physical therapist wanted to do one last check before handing him off – Sherlock was already dressed, and the few possessions he’d acquired during his week long stay, were stacked and ready to go when John arrived.

“A suit? Really?” John said, dropping his own overnight bag in the corner.

Sherlock frowned. “Well, what else am I to wear?”

“I don’t know, something more comfortable, maybe?”

“This is comfortable. And it’s what I always wear.”

“Of course you always wear a suit.” John muttered to himself. Sherlock really was almost too posh for words.

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with wearing suits.” Sherlock said, sounding defensive.

“You’re right, there isn’t. I just wouldn’t think a suit would be all that comfortable with the bandages and everything, it is rather formfitting.” Though John couldn’t help noticing that even with the bandages and leg brace, Sherlock looked good in a suit. “And I’m going to assume your doctor already gave you the final check before you got dressed. Getting into that couldn’t have been easy, and I’d hate for you to go through that again.”

“I’m not a child, John.” Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes. “He came by this morning, and you’ll be happy to know my incisions look clean, and the burns are almost entirely healed. I should only have a slight skin discoloration if any.”

“Glad to hear it.” John chuckled

“Yes, and I can change into more ‘comfortable’ pajamas once we get home,” Sherlock added. “But for now, I want to leave this place looking and feeling like myself again.”

“As long as you’re happy, I guess.”

"I am, thank you very much.”

 

They spent the final bit of time before Meredith the physical therapist’s final check talking about Baker Street, taking bets on how many times Mycroft was going to try to butt in – John said once a week, Sherlock said every time one of them breathed funny – and what they should expect of each other as flatmates. Soon enough Meredith had given Sherlock the go ahead, discharge papers were signed, instructions were given – that’s when Sherlock started to get antsy – follow up appointments were made, and they were out the door and in a Mycroft provided town car headed for Baker Street.

~***~

John was just helping Sherlock out of the car, when the front door of 221 Baker Street swung open, revealing an anxious but excited looking Mrs. Hudson.          

“Oh Sherlock, welcome home, Dear!” She cried, rushing forward to hug the unsteady Sherlock. “Come, come, we’ve got everything ready for you.”

To put it lightly, the process of getting Sherlock up to his flat – to their flat, John had to keep reminding himself it was now his flat too – was slow going. Mrs. Hudson went ahead, while John stayed behind the detective, should he start to fall, as Sherlock manipulated his crutches on the stairs, taking them one step at a time. It took nearly two full minutes for him to navigate the seventeen steps, and though he tried to hide it, but the end he look out of breath and exhausted.

Before bothering to even take in his new flat, John made sure Sherlock was safely on a leather sofa, and ran back down the stairs to retrieve their bags which he had dropped in the foyer. When he returned, he found Sherlock still on the sofa, his eyes closed and his head tipped back against the wall, and he could hear Mrs. Hudson puttering around in what he assumed was the kitchen. It was only then that he took the chance to look around his new flat.

When he’d agreed to move in with Sherlock, he didn’t quite know what to expect of a place Sherlock Holmes would live, but seeing 221B, with its mismatched armchairs flanking the fireplace, old writing desk between the two large front windows, neat stacks of books and files on shelves and along the walls, Victorian looking wallpaper, framed skull panting, animal skull wearing headphones mounted on the wall, and human skull on the mantle – Sherlock really liked skulls – John could see that Sherlock Holmes could only ever live here. 221B fit Sherlock perfectly, and though he liked portray himself as a ‘normal’ everyman, John secretly felt that 221B could fit himself as well.

“It’s certainly different, but I like it,” he said to Sherlock, who he hadn’t noticed watching him intently as he surveyed the flat.

Sherlock smirked. “I knew you would,” he tried to look smug, but it was obvious he was relieved.

“John, Dear,” Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen, “how do you take your tea?”

“No sugar, and just a splash of milk. But you really don’t have to make me tea.” He replied, hurrying over to take the two cups of tea from her, presumably for himself and Sherlock.

“And don’t expect me to,” she smiled, “I’m doing this just the once to welcome you. Remember, I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper.”

“I will. Ta, very much.”

“It is going to be so nice having someone up here who’s actually polite.” Mrs. Hudson stared pointedly at Sherlock, who just shrugged and smiled around his cup as he sipped his tea. “Now, once you’re done, I’ll give you a quick tour, then I’ll get out of your hair and let you two settle in.”

 

“Just through the kitchen, and down the hall is the full bath, and the larger of the two bedrooms.”

“And I’m going to assume that’s Sherlock’s?”

“Yes. It’s directly over my own room in the flat downstairs. I can hear everything.” Mrs. Hudson hummed. “If I didn’t have ear plugs, I’d be awake half the night due to his pacing and thumping about. That boy just doesn’t know how to settle.”

“I don’t know about settling, but something tells me the frequency of the late night pacing is going to take a dramatic decline for the next few months.” John mused, glancing over his shoulder at the man himself who was obviously trying to make it look like he was tuning them out, but the small smile on his face gave away the truth.

“Oh dear, I certainly didn’t want the pacing to end because of something like this.”

Mrs. Hudson’s torn expression made John feel like a real arse.

“I was only kidding,” he apologized. “So, where’s the second bedroom?”

“Oh it’s just upstairs, follow me.”

Even if it was the smaller room, the upstairs bedroom more than worked for John. There was a full sized bed flanked by two bedside tables, a large wardrobe, an empty bookshelf, a decent sized desk, and a large window overlooking Baker Street.

“When Sherlock called me last night to tell me the good news, I made sure to dust, and put fresh sheets on the bed.”

“That’s really too kind of you. Thank you.” This may have only been the second time he’d ever met Mrs. Hudson, but John was starting to suspect she was the greatest landlady a bloke could ask for.

“Don’t mention it.” Mrs. Hudson blushed. “We had to make sure you have somewhere decent to stay until Sherlock’s fully recovered.”

Until Sherlock’s fully recovered? Did she think this was temporary?

“Oh, I thought Sherlock told you; I’m not just moving in for Sherlock’s recovery. He asked me to share the flat.”

“I know that, Dear, I just meant…” she paused, looking a bit embarrassed. “Well, I assume you’ll eventually be moving down to the other room once Sherlock’s more healed. Don’t worry though, this room is still yours, it’s still included in you boys’ rent.”

Move to the other room… Oh Jesus.

“No, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and I aren’t –” John started to explain, but Mrs. Hudson cut him off.

“Oh, don't worry, there are all sorts around here,” she said with a conspiratorial wink. “Mrs. Turner’s girls next door are married even.”

“Ah, that’s… good.”

“Seriously, John, I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re moving in. Sherlock really needs this.”

“No, I really don’t think Sherlock’s going to need that much help during his recovery. There’s really nothing much to do other than follow the physical therapist’s instructions, and take it easy.” John chuckled nervously, starting to feel a bit uncomfortable. “Me moving in is simply because I needed a new place to live, Sherlock needed a flatmate, and we get along. Nothing noble or self-sacrificing about it, honestly.”

“It’s very clear that you two get along.” Mrs. Hudson smiled. “But that’s not what I meant. I meant that Sherlock’s always been alone, and he’ll deny it until his last breath, but he’s always been so lonely. He retreats into that mad brain of his like a protective cocoon, and having you here, having a… friend here, I think it will keep him from getting lost. I don’t want you to feel like I’m putting too much responsibility on your shoulders,” she added hastily, “but I can already tell that you’re good for him.”

John was gobsmacked, he felt undeserving of such praise. All he had done was befriend Sherlock, and it wasn’t even like it was difficult. Was Sherlock really so lonely? He obviously had people who cared about him. Yeah, Sherlock was a bit odd, and definitely prickly, but who wasn’t odd in some way. And it wasn’t like John was particularly known of his warm and sunny disposition. What could he offer Sherlock, that someone else couldn’t? Sure they had clicked – far faster than John had ‘clicked’ with any of his other mates or… – and the comradery between them was easy, but that was it. John really wasn’t that special.

“Mrs. Hudson, I don’t…” he stuttered.

“Hush, Dear, you don’t have to say anything. Come on, let’s get back down there and make sure that silly boy hasn’t gotten into any trouble while we weren’t looking.”

 

After fussing over Sherlock some more, Mrs. Hudson retreated back down to her own flat, leaving John alone with Sherlock for the first time in the flat they now shared.

“So now what?” he asked, collapsing into the red upholstered armchair across from the sofa. “Are you hungry? We could heat up one of those meals Mrs. Hudson left us.”

Mrs. Hudson had stocked their refrigerator with several days’ worth of meals, but had warned them that it was _‘only this once, I’m not your housekeeper.’_ Sherlock, however, was quick to tell him not to put any stock into her words, since Mrs. Hudson loved to cook, and was always bringing up food.

“I’m fine for now, but maybe later. At the moment, I think I’d like to change. I’d rather not be wearing a suit right now.” Sherlock said, using his crutches to lift himself up.

John was not going to say he told him so, but he knew a suit was a ridiculous outfit to wear home from hospital.

“If you need any help –”

“John, I told you before, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“I was going to say that if you need any help, that’s just tough, because I’m neither your nurse nor your nurse’s aid.”

“Your commitment to patient well-being is a thing of wonder, Dr. Watson.” Sherlock said flatly, but smiled all the same as he made his way past John and down the hall towards his room.

Laughing to himself, John kept an eye on Sherlock’s progress nonetheless, somethings were just hardwired into him. Life at 221B might just be fun after all, at the very least, he had a feeling he’d never be bored.

 

* * *

 

The new physical therapist – this one named Heather Something – arrived at nine o’clock sharp the following morning. When Sherlock refused to return to Mycroft’s home for his recovery, Mycroft had contacted the physical therapist, and arranged for her to go to Baker Street instead. John thought it was considerate, that Mycroft was being _nice_ , but Sherlock knew better. No, this woman was still being paid by his brother, and was probably another one of his spies. He’d have to make sure she was never left alone anywhere in the flat, he couldn’t give her any opportunity to plant more of Mycroft’s bugs.

Because navigating the stairs was too much of a hassle for Sherlock, and because he just didn’t want to get up from his seat, John had to go and show Heather upstairs. Unfortunately, that’s where his assistance ended. Yes, Sherlock had told him over and over that he didn’t need any help, but it would have been nice if John had stuck around. Instead John left them be – more of that privacy nonsense – and went to his old bedsit to pack the rest of his belongings, and settle everything with his old landlord. It had to be done of course, and the sooner John rid himself of the old flat the better, but it still meant Sherlock was left alone with this new physical therapist, when he’d really rather not have been.

The very first thing Heather did upon entering the flat, was give Sherlock a quick hello and immediately take his crutches away. She meant business, that was one check in the pro column. Working for Mycroft, however, was still a missive check in the con.

It didn’t take long for her to set up her equipment, a pair of parallel bars, and some sort of specialty weight bench, and after a few minutes of warm up stretches, they got to work. For an hour and a half, Heather worked each muscle in Sherlock’s leg in every single way imaginable. On the weight bench, he had to sit and use his foot to push different weights as far as he could. He had to walk through the parallel bars over and over, never once letting go of the bars, and never once making it all the way through without collapsing and having to catch himself. Heather said it was nothing to be ashamed of, that she’d yet to have a patient one week post major surgery, walk unaided. She said that he was doing remarkably well given the circumstances. It was not a comfort. Sherlock wasn’t her other patients, he was better than that, he knew he should be better than that. They ended the session with some cool down stretches, and Heather left with strict instructions for Sherlock to rest before she returned at two for their second hour and half long session.

 

John must have been waiting around for Heather to leave, because not ten minutes after she left, the front door opened, and John came back with a duffle bag, two cardboard boxes, and what looked like a metal under-bed locker. He didn’t ask how therapy went, and for that Sherlock was eternally grateful, he just when straight up to his room, dropped off his stuff, and came back down to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

“You should take that ice off your leg.” He said, coming out of the kitchen with two cups of tea in hand, and two pain pills.

"But my leg hurts.” Sherlock said, moving the ice pack from his thigh nonetheless. John was a doctor, and had been through this before, he probably knew what he was talking about.

“I’m sure it does, but you’re supposed to apply heat, not ice. It better relaxes the muscles.”

“The heat increases the blood flow, decreasing the build-up of lactic acid, of course!” Sherlock groaned, he should have known that. “I think I have a hot water bottle under the kitchen sink, would you mind?”

One side of John’s mouth quirked up as a small chuckle escaped. “What happened to you being perfectly fine on your own, not needing any assistance? What happened to treating me like any other flatmate?”   

“I am fine on my own, and I am treating you like a normal flatmate. I would have asked you to get it for me even if I had two fully functional legs.”

“Of course you would have.” John grumbled, but got up anyway.

“Alright, there is no way in hell this thing is safe to use.” He said after about a minute of rummaging under the sink. “It smells god awful, and I’m pretty sure it’s starting to degrade. I don’t think it’s even safe to have in the flat!”

“I’m sure it’s fine. Just give it a rinse.”

“No, I’m serious, Sherlock. I’m going to throw this out. Hold on, I’ve got one of those microwavable wraps you can use.”

John returned a few minutes later with the heated wrap, which smelled strongly of oatmeal, and it felt… amazing. Perhaps it was the combination of the pain meds kicking in and the heat, but Sherlock’s muscles immediately felt more relaxed, and the soreness started to ebb away. Sherlock may have even let out a long sigh that to some sounded more like a moan. At that moment, Sherlock didn’t really care, he just let the heat sink in, and the relaxation spread throughout his body.

 

Sherlock must have fallen asleep at some point because the next thing he knew, John was nudging him awake, telling him Heather would be back in a little over an hour, and he needed to eat something before she got there. Grudgingly, Sherlock ate half the sandwich John made him, but left the other half on principle. His transport didn’t require as much food as others to maintain adequate energy levels, and the sooner John learned that, the better.

They spent the remainder of the time before Heather’s return in much the same way as they had when Sherlock was still in hospital. With the telly on low in the background as white noise, Sherlock tried to convince John why the old hot water bottle might come in handy for a future experiment. John was just about to concede – Sherlock could tell – when Heather arrived for the second session, and they had to put a pin in the discussion.

Like that morning, John insisted on giving them privacy, and disappeared up to his room to unpack the rest of his belongings. Unlike that morning, John was still in the flat, and being able to hear him bump around on the floor above, moving things around, getting settled, somehow make Sherlock feel more at ease. Sherlock wasn’t alone with one of Mycroft’s probably minions, he had back up. John may have been out of sight, but he was there, and because of that, the second session, while just as frustrating and physically taxing, went far better than the first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isn't Mrs. H the best?
> 
> Next time, we get more of a glimpse into what life is like at 221B. 
> 
> Now what do you say you do an old woman a favor, and leave some of those lovely comments/corrections/thoughts? If you do that, then I'll update day after tomorrow (disregard the fact I'm going to do it anyway)


	6. New, Different, and Oddly Comforting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns what life at 221B, and with Sherlock, is really like; the good and the bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a fairly short one today, a little filler before some good stuff happens (at least I hope you think it's good).
> 
> To any American readers, I wish you a happy belated Thanksgiving. If you celebrated yesterday, I hope you had a good day and dinner. To any non-American readers, I still hope you had a good day and dinner!

John settled into life at 221B almost instantly; not since the bungalow he lived when he was twelve, where he had his own little attic bedroom, had a place so quickly felt like home. As for living with Sherlock, just like when he was visiting him in hospital, they just clicked into place. By the end of the first week they had found a routine, and it was like John Watson had always lived in 221B Baker Street, and he’d always lived with Sherlock Holmes.

Most of the time, they’d do their own things, but inevitably, they’d end up doing their own things together. Sherlock started working on experiments almost immediately upon returning home, and John immediately made a mental note to always double check _anything_ he found in the kitchen. When Sherlock was set up at the kitchen table, John would find himself reading in his arm chair, listen to the clinking of glassware and Sherlock’s humming as he took notes. John would watch telly in the evenings, while Sherlock retreated to his ‘Mind Palace’. Or at least he claimed to go to his ‘Mind Palace’, but more than once, John had caught him reacting to what was just on the screen. And then there were times when they’d both be quietly on their computers, Sherlock spread out on the couch, and John at the desk, one of them would make a random passing comment, and thus spark an entire equally random conversation. John didn’t quite understand it, he had never really hung around the house with any of his friends with whom he’d previously flat-shared, but with Sherlock, they seemed to gravitate towards the same place, gravitate towards each other. Maybe it was just a symptom of age. Whatever it was, it was new, it was definitely different, and John found it oddly comforting.

When it came time for Sherlock’s physical therapy sessions, John would make himself scarce, retreating up to his room, running to the shops, or visiting with Mrs. Hudson. He’d even rescheduled his weekly appointment with Ella to coincide with one of Sherlock’s morning sessions. Between the sessions and once they were done for the day, they’d resume their quiet – and sometimes not so quiet – comradery. At some point, John would usually have to force Sherlock to eat something. At first Sherlock would refuse, repeating his ridiculous claim that the food just slowed him down, but eventually he’d give in. And the added energy clearly helped, because with each passing day, John could see Sherlock getting stronger and stronger.

Of course, even with Sherlock’s visible improvement, that didn’t stop John from making sure he was always on hand should Sherlock need help with anything, but Sherlock actually managed well enough on his own. He could stand unsupported for longer and longer periods of time, he could maneuver around the flat on his crutches with ease, and when they went to his doctor’s appointment, navigating up and down the stairs only took half as long as before. He still needed to hold on to something – usually John – if he wanted to actually walk, but if he held on to John, he could walk between the kitchen and sitting room with very little incident. Sherlock was terrible when it came to doing Heather’s “homework assignments”, so John found himself helping out with those too. In the evenings, before turning in for the night, he’d make Sherlock do the assigned exercises. Like with the eating, Sherlock would groan and grumble, but do them all the same. John actually suspected the petulance was all for show, because after Sherlock was done, he’d usually see a proud little smile flit across Sherlock face, followed quickly by an eyeroll and another complaint. Secretly, John found it just a bit charming, but only just. He didn’t to inflate Sherlock’s ego any more than it already was.

John also found himself monitoring Sherlock’s incisions, helping him re-dress them, and properly wrap them when he went for a wash or a much-needed soak to sooth his sore leg muscles. So much for not being a nursemaid, but he couldn’t very well turn off being a doctor. He did however draw the line at dressing Sherlock, somethings the man had to do for himself. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind though, and apparently, everything he’d asked John to do – act as a crutch, help with the exercises, deliver food and tea – was nothing he wouldn’t ask of any other flatmate. John wasn’t exactly sure if that was a comfort or not, but it was what it was, and he didn’t really mind. It was nice to finally be needed again, and they were hardly major inconveniences anyway.

~***~

A bored Sherlock Holmes was quite possibly the biggest pain in the arse John had ever had to deal with, and that included looking after a combat hospital full of injured soldiers who kept trying to return to active duty before properly healed. It was the Sunday between the first and second week in 221B, there were no sessions with Heather because it was the physical therapy rest day, and as a result of there being nothing to preoccupy him, a great restlessness seemed to overtake Sherlock. The entire first half of the morning was taken up by him hobbling back and forth between his leather armchair and the couch, the constant _click click click_ of his crutches on the floor was almost enough to drive John up the wall. When he finally settled for the couch, he then proceeded to click through the tabs on his computer with far more force than necessary, and by John’s calculations, sighed, huffed, or tutted roughly once every thirty-eight seconds.

On top of the boredom, it was also clear that Sherlock’s leg was hurting him. He had a terrible habit of skipping or forgetting to take a dose of his pain meds – which were already far weaker than what John would have expected given the severity of Sherlock’s injury – but when John _considerately_ pointed the missed dose out to him, Sherlock would insist he was fine, or he had already taken it. Most of the time John didn’t have the energy to argue with him, figuring if the pain got too bad he’d crack, but at that moment, he was seriously starting to consider pinning Sherlock down and forcing the pills down his throat.

 

Salvation for 221B – and its occupants – arrived in the form of Greg Lestrade carrying a small file box, and a specimen transport cooler.

“I figured you’d be starting to get a little stir crazy,” Lestrade said as he entered the flat, “so I came bearing gifts.”

“You have no idea,” John mumbled. Sherlock just grunted, though he had sat up.

Lestrade chuckled and shook his head, clearly used to such behavior. “These are some cold cases, and a few open cases we’ve gotten since you went and got yourself blown up, and this spleen is compliments of Molly,” he said, setting both the file box and the cooler on the coffee table in front of Sherlock. “Just so we’re clear, I officially did not bring this here, and I have no knowledge of any human tissue leaving the morgue,” he added, eyeing them both.

And just like that, it was like a veil had been lifted. Sherlock’s eyes sharpened, and his face actually brightened. He looked like a little boy on Christmas morning, not knowing which new toy to play with first. Forgetting the fact that the ‘toys’ were a human spleen and possible homicides, it was… endearing.

Sherlock evidently decided to look through the cases first, requesting – telling – John to put the cooler in the bottom drawer of the fridge, then promptly shut out the rest of the world.

“Alright, I have to know, how’s it been living with Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, following John into the kitchen.

“It’s been… Yeah, it’s been good. No, really, it’s good,” John said when Lestrade quirked an eyebrow. “The flat itself is great, Mrs. Hudson is possibly the nicest and most accommodating landlady I’ve ever met, and Sherlock’s…” he thought for a minute as to how to best put it. “Ok, Sherlock’s a bit of a demanding flatmate, I’m helping him out more than I normally would, but that’s understandable given his leg. But honestly, we’re getting along great. Living with him, hanging around with him, it’s nice, it’s easy. Sherlock’s great company, when he’s not bored that is.”

Lestrade just stared, his brows furrowed, and his mouth in a disbelieving half smile. It was slightly disconcerting.

“What?”

"Nothing, it’s nothing,” Lestrade said, shaking his head. “It’s just… I’ve never heard anyone say _anything_ with Sherlock is easy or nice.”

John frowned. That made absolutely no sense at all. Sure, Sherlock wasn’t too sociable, or overly cheery, and maybe he was a bit odd, he had less than typical interests, he was blunt, impatient, slightly oblivious at times, and was a shade arrogant, but nothing about him was necessarily unlikeable. While he may not have been ordinary, he was interesting, and he had a macabre sense of humor that matched John’s. Sherlock was actually a decent friend once you looked passed the outer shell of blunt, oblivious, impatient arrogance. At least that’s the impression John got after two weeks of knowing the man.

“I’m not exactly sure I understand why they’d think that,” John said eventually, “but I guess you know him better than I do.”

“I’ve known him for five years now and no, I don’t.” Lestrade sighed. “Don’t get me wrong, I like Sherlock, I consider him a friend… It’s just… Well, I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m glad Sherlock’s found a flatmate he’s comfortable with, someone who partially understands and isn’t turned off by who he is. It’s good for him, Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and now I think there’s a chance he’s on his way to being a good one as well.”

First Mrs. Hudson, now Lestrade; John couldn’t help wondering why everyone in Sherlock’s life was so concerned about him. Why did they seem to think John was something special, that he could somehow change or influence any aspect of who Sherlock was? He may have only known the man for two weeks, but he knew for sure that no one could change anything about who Sherlock Holmes was, least of all him.

John’s reverie was broken by Sherlock’s voice coming from the sitting room. “John, come in here. I want you to take a look at something and tell me what you see.”

“I think that’s my cue to go,” Lestrade said, clapping John on the shoulder. “And you better go see what His Majesty needs. I’ll stop by again soon, be sure to call if you need anything.”

“Will do,” John nodded, not bothering to address what had been said before Sherlock’s interruption. “And thanks for the files and the…” he added waving towards the fridge, and the spleen it now contained.

“Anytime.”

“And put the kettle on, my tea’s gone cold, I need a fresh cup,” came Sherlock’s voice again.

“John, you should probably know,” Lestrade said from the doorway, a smirk spread across his face, “injury or not, Sherlock will always be this demanding.”

Oh excellent. Still, if this was his life now, making tea and looking over case files, John thought, he might as well make the most of it. It might even be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder what both Mrs. H and Lestrade see between John and Sherlock, that John's missing. Your guess is as good as mine. But it's a bit weird, don't you think?
> 
> So you know how case files and human spleens put Sherlock in a good mood (and a non-bored Sherlock puts John in a good mood)? Well seeing lovely comments from even lovelier readers, puts me in a good mood. And when I'm in a good mood, I'm less inclined to re-write this story and do things to keep the boys apart or make them upset. You wouldn't want me to make John move out, would you?


	7. Entering Stage Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is spot on with his predictions, and is progressing beautifully through his recovery, but could something else be progressing as well?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was such a fun scene to write, so I really hope you like it!

The second week of in-home daily physical therapy went even better than the first. Not only could he feel himself getting stronger and more coordinated – still couldn’t walk unaided though – but Sherlock also had fresh tissue samples and case files to occupy him during the daily downtime between sessions. Most importantly though, he found he had John on hand to help out, and off whom to bounce thoughts, ideas, and theories. Unlike the skull, John took an active interest in the cases – not so much the organ charring experiment – which was possibly the greatest help of all. So with the case files, John, and experiments, that second week flew by, and just as he predicted, Sherlock completed ‘Stage Two’ of his recovery by his second Saturday home. At the rate he was going, he was sure to be back to near normal condition within another two weeks. He’d probably have a bit of a limp for a while, but that was hardly anything to get too concerned over.

Sherlock would have cut out his own tongue before ever admitting it, but John’s help, his insistence he keep up with the stretches and exercises Heather assigned, and his constant – and annoying – reminders that Sherlock take his pain meds, may have contributed to the speed at which he recovered. Out loud, Sherlock insisted it was just because his body healed far faster than those of normal people. The look John gave him every time he said it told him John was not buying it, but that hardly mattered. Sherlock would withstand all the disbelieving looks John could throw at him, just as long as John kept up whatever he was doing, because whatever it was, Sherlock was sure it was helping. Again, his tongue would be cut off before John ever knew that.

 

“What are your plans for tomorrow morning, around say, eleven o’clock?” Sherlock asked that Sunday evening, trying to sound disinterested in the answer.

‘Stage Three’ was set to begin the next day. No longer was Heather going to come to the flat, but Sherlock was going to go to the physical therapy center – as an outpatient of course – for his sessions three times a week. He was finally getting the chance to get out of the flat, and stretch his legs so to speak. He was finally strong enough to re-enter society to a certain extent. He still had to ‘take it easy’ and Lestrade had nixed the idea of him going to crime scenes, but he was no longer so tied to the flat, he was nearly free.

“Tomorrow at eleven? You mean when you go to your PT appointment?”

“Yes, then.”

“I don’t know, I hadn’t really thought about it.” John shrugged. “Maybe update my CV, see if I can find some locum work. An army pension can only go so far.”

“Ah, right. So you’ll be busy. That’s good.” It was stupid of him to have even asked.

“I wouldn’t say that. Why did you want to know?”

“I was just going to suggest that if you didn’t have anything better to do, you could always come along, or… or you could meet me at the center after I’m done.” It had been years since he’d last stumble over his words. What was wrong with him? “The appointment is only an hour and a half, and I thought since you’re always insisting I eat, we could go get lunch afterwards. I should probably thank you for all the help you’ve been these past two weeks.” Christ, he was rambling.  “But if you’re busy, that’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” Sherlock finished, his face starting to feel flushed. Seriously, what the hell was wrong with him?

“CV revisions and the job searches can always wait for lunch.” John smiled. “I’d be happy to go along, if you want me too.”

“Really? Don’t feel compelled just because I asked.”

“Please,” John huffed, “it’s not every day you suggest getting food. I am not going to the one to discourage that kind of behavior. Plus I can make sure you don’t try to sneak off and find some criminal enterprise to dismantle.”

Sherlock snorted, as if John could stop him from doing anything he wanted to do. “If I wanted to dismantle a criminal enterprise, I wouldn’t need to sneak off, I’d just do it.” He smirked. “But this is excellent. With you along, this lessens the chances of Mycroft trying to ‘check in on my well-being.’”

“Oh hoho! So that’s the real reason you want me to come with you,” John laughed. “You’re just hoping I keep your brother away!”

“Just an added bonus, John. Just an added bonus.”

~***~

Figuring John would just come meet him after the appointment, Sherlock was justifiably surprised when he not only went along when Sherlock left for his appointment, but that he actually sat out in the lobby of the clinic and waited the whole hour and a half for the session to be done. He claimed he was just doing his duty by preventing any Mycroft prompted detours, and that the wait gave him a chance to start reading his new book. Ridiculous excuses, both of them. First, despite what he said the night before, Sherlock knew that nothing could prevent Mycroft from doing what he wanted to do, and he knew John knew that as well. And second, John had ample opportunity to read his book; it was the second in a series, the first of which he had read over the past two weeks, as they sat around the flat. He didn’t need to sit in a tacky old chair in the lobby of a rehab center, in order to read. No, John was there simply because Sherlock had asked him, and he wanted to be there. Nobody, besides maybe his parents, had ever been willing to do that for him, to be there for him, and Sherlock would have been lying if he said it didn’t make his chest feel just a bit warmer, and his stomach just a bit lighter.

The session itself was really no different than what he was used to. The equipment was better, and there was more of it which lead to slightly different exercises. And he wasn’t alone; there were other therapists with other patients, but ultimately it was more of the same. Needless to say, after an hour and a half of the parallel bars, leg lifts with a rubber resistance band, and for some reason, kicking a large inflatable ball, Sherlock was more than ready to get John from the lobby, and leave.

“Do you still want to go somewhere for lunch, or would you rather we just head home?” John asked, holding the door open for the both of them.

“I lured you out with me on the promise of lunch,” Sherlock replied, “and what kind of friend would I be if I were to renege on my word?”

“A horrible, untrustworthy, deceitful liar.”

“Untrustworthy, deceitful liar is redundant, John.”

“Maybe it is, but I wanted make sure you know just how awful lying to me about food is,” John said, one side of his mouth quirking up in a teasing grin, as he tried to hail a cab. “Any idea where you want to go?”

"It’s up to you, I honestly couldn’t care less,” Sherlock wasn’t sure he was even going to eat, this lunch was purely for John’s benefit. “Though I would suggest you pick somewhere with a more casual dress code, I fear my current outfit would be frowned upon at some better establishments.” He was wearing track pants and a t-shirt he hadn’t worn since university; he coat could only cover so much. “If you do want to go somewhere more upscale, I guess we could head back to Baker Street and I could change.”

“No need for anything fancy,” John shook his head. “I’m fine with lowkey and causal. How about Chinese? I’m kind of in the mood for maybe some hot and sour soup.”

Sherlock lifted a hand, stopping a passing cab instantly; not an easy feat since he did it while balancing on crutches. “Chinese works. I think I know just the place.”

~***~

“I always wanted to try hot pot, I’ve just never really found an opportunity to actually go.”

Sherlock watched as John perused the menu, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration, one side of his lower lip caught between his teeth. Why a list of broth, meat, and vegetable options required so much deliberation, Sherlock wasn’t sure, but he never really did care much about what he ate, so what did he know? The restaurant was family-style anyway, whatever John chose, he would be eating too. Sherlock was more than content just watching and waiting on John to make his final selections.

“It allows for quite a bit of customization, which I’m sure is desirable when it comes to food. You’re not at the mercy of the cook.”

“Which you’re sure is desirable when it comes to food?” John repeated, chuckling. “You try to act like your above it all, the normal demands of being human, but don’t think I don’t hear your stomach grumbling.”

Well that was patently false, Sherlock was nothing if not in complete – nearly complete – control of his transport.

“I found this place about a year and a half ago,” he said, changing the subject. “I was on a case, investigating a suspected human trafficking operation.”

John’s head snapped up from his menu, his eyes wide, and began looking at the employees and patrons. “Oh God. The people here aren’t… they weren’t…”

“No, no. Ms. Yao and her staff were neither victims nor perpetrators,” Sherlock assured him. Honestly, he thought John was cleverer than to think Sherlock would allow such an operation to continue. “No, there was a sunbed place across the street. This restaurant just proved to be an excellent vantage point, and Ms. Yao was quite accommodating, allowing me to sit and observe the goings on across the street for hours.”

“Oh, well that’s a relief. Not the human trafficking thing, but…” John paused, shaking his head. “So you helped bring them down?”

“Yes; though I wouldn’t say I helped. I did almost all the heavy lifting, the authorities just came in at the end to make the arrests.”

John smiled, huffing out a small laugh. “Of course you did.”

Before Sherlock could say anything else, the waiter arrived to take their orders. All talk of human trafficking ceased, and by the time their food had arrived – a vegetable soup base with three types of meats, four types of vegetables, and two types of noodles to add – the topic had shifted to Sherlock’s physical therapy. John nearly sprayed the table when Sherlock told him that Heather had suggested adding swimming to the regimen. Apparently, the image of him in swim trunks, _‘splashing around the water’_ , was oh so funny.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” John said, clearly fighting to regain some composure. “I shouldn’t laugh. Working in the pool should be great for your recovery, it should really help you!”

“Yes, that’s what Heather said too,” Sherlock hummed. “According to her, the water will alleviate the amount of weight and strain on my leg when doing the exercises.”

“Yeah, it acts as a sort of added support matrix; decreases the odds of further damaging your leg or slowing your healing.”

“John, you’re starting to sound like a pamphlet.” Sherlock snickered, lifting an eyebrow.

“I do, don’t I?” John laughed, shrugging his shoulders in that unconscious, almost self-deprecating way of his. “But hey, I’m just telling you what they told me when I had to go through all of this.”

“Your PT, you mean?”

“Yeah, I had an aquatic session or two for my shoulder; mostly just lifting some weights and a few range of motions exercises. What’s so funny?” John asked when Sherlock started to laugh.

“Oh nothing, nothing.” Sherlock said, biting back a grin. “I just find the image of you in swim trunks splashing about in the water, rather amusing.”

“Oh very funny.” John groaned out a sigh, but laughed all the same. “Alright, I guess I deserved that.”

 

The rest of their meal passed quickly enough, they talked a bit more about Heather’s plan for Sherlock’s recovery, and Sherlock’s plan to expedite Heather’s plan, which John shot down almost immediately. A part of him wanted to ask John more about his experiences with physical therapy. He already knew all the statistics and patient testimonials, but those were of other people, other people’s accounts, John was John, he knew he could trust John’s experiences to be true, and John wouldn’t sugar coat anything. But he held back, he couldn’t push things, at least not yet, so by the time the check came, the conversation had shifted back to human trafficking with Sherlock mapping out the entire case to an enthused John. The questions could wait.

“Oh crap,” John said, reviewing the check. Sherlock hated dealing with money and payments – Mrs. Hudson liked to blame that on his posh upbringing but really it was because it meant he had to deal with people – so he gave his card to John, letting him settle everything.

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

“The waiter, he accidentally forgot to charge us for the additional noodles we ordered. The special was only supposed to come with one type.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Sherlock chuckled, “he clearly did that on purpose.”

“What, really?” John frowned. “Why?”

“Please, John, don’t pretend you don’t know. It’s perfectly obvious his motivations.”

“Not perfectly obvious to me. Why?”

Sherlock shook his head. God, what must it be like for John, being of normal – alright, slightly above normal – intelligence? So blissfully unaware of so much around him.

“He’s attracted to you, he’s been flirting with you pretty much since we walked in.”

“What?” John sputtered, his eyes growing wide once again. “No! Really?” He asked, sounding astonished and whipping his head around towards their waiter who was chatting with the girl behind the till.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, John couldn’t actually be pretending that he didn’t know men could find him attractive. It wasn’t like John was asymmetrical or something; his features were kind of… nice. It could be said that John was… appealing, to a certain extent.

“Yes,” he sighed. “While he has barely glanced at me, he can hardly take his eyes off of you. Not to mention that he’s had the most ridiculous grin on his face the entire time we’ve been here.”

“Are you sure? He could just be an attentive waiter, and I was the one doing all the ordering.”

“Hardly. He’s civil to the rest of the customers, but he’s positively bubbling when he’s over here.” Sherlock nearly cringed just saying it. “And he’s checked in with our table nearly three times more often than any of the others. But don’t worry,” he added, “I don’t think he’ll actually try anything.”

John frowned and turned back to face Sherlock. “Try anything?”

“I mean, I don’t think he’ll hit on you or try to ask you out.”

“Worry me? Why would I be worried if he hit on me?” John laughed. “He’s definitely easy on the eyes. I tell you, if I was ten years younger, or he was ten years older…”

If John was… If the waiter was…

Was John… But his _personal_ browsing history suggested otherwise. “You’d welcome his advances?”  

“It’s always nice to be noticed,” John grinned. “But he is a bit too young, and not exactly my type. I’ve tended to go for the taller ones in the past. Ironic, I know”

Ones in the past. John had been involved with men in the past.

“So you’re… You find… women _and_ men…”

John furrowed his brow, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously. “Am I attracted to both women and men? Yes,” he said slowly.

“Oh, I – I see.”

Bisexual, of course! How could he have missed it?! Probably more toward the heterosexual end of the spectrum – given the search history – but clearly aware of and accepting of his homosexual inclinations. Maybe around a two on the scale. Sherlock was slipping, he should have been able to deduce that within the first day. Definitely slipping.

“What?” Sherlock asked when John continued to stare at him, not saying anything, a confused, suspicious look still on his face.

"Nothing, it’s just,” John paused, “there is no way you’re one of those ‘stop being selfish, you have to pick a side, men or women’ people.”

“What? No. Why would I care what or who you find attractive? Men, women, both, neither, it makes no difference to me.” It didn’t, and he didn’t care.

“Good, because body parts in the fridge, and photos of dead bodies and crime scenes, I can deal with, but having to put up with that kind of nonsense…”

“Of course not, no,” Sherlock shook his head. “I’m just shocked I didn’t noticed it before. But now that I think back, it’s glaringly obvious.”

“Glaringly obvious, huh?”

“Yes, you were far too interested in that drama program you watched last week, the one about the Regency gentleman’s sea voyage. Your eyes dilated and your breathing quickened during certain parts where a strictly heterosexual man’s wouldn’t.”

“Well damn, and here I was, thinking I was so subtle.” John grinned. “Can’t get anything by you.”

Sherlock gave into the grin tugging on the corner of his mouth, letting it spread across his face. “It was foolish of you to even try.”

“Arse,” John chuckled. “So, anywhere you want to go while we’re out, or do you just want to head back to Baker Street?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “Home, I think. I’d really like to get back to the Sutherland disappearance.” While it was the truth, he did want to go over the newest case Lestrade had dropped off, mostly he was exhausted and wanted to rest for a while. Not to mention he was still in his clothes from physical therapy, and was very much in need of a shower.

“Alright, home it is. Go on, you go get us a cab while I settle up. I’ll meet you outside.” John said with a smile, and Sherlock felt himself once again, smiling back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For someone so smart, Sherlock is such an oblivious scamp, don't you think?
> 
> The show John was a little too interested in was meant to be 'To the Ends of the Earth' which started Benedict Cumberbatch. And this is the part he REALLY liked https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D_fgKk1CM-0
> 
> Interesting story. There's a hot pot restaurant where I live, right next to a suntanning place. There are some sketchy people who go in and out of the suntanning salon, and my friends and I have a running joke that it's a front for some illegal dealings. Now that I think about it, I really hope it's not human trafficking!
> 
> So yeah, drop me some of those precious comments, I'm rather poor, so they're the only think of value I have!


	8. Getting Better, Getting Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After three weeks, John is feeling good and feeling content with life at 221B and with Sherlock, then a black mood sets in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the first half of the next chapter are about as angsty as this fic will get (maybe there's a touch of angst near the end, but it hardly counts). That being said, it's not TOO bad.

“So John, how have you been since last week?” Ella asked, pen and paper in hand, starting off the session.

"Good.” John said. “Really good.” It was true, he honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this good; before Afghanistan, that was for sure. And it wasn’t just a passing good, he wasn’t just having a good few days. It wasn’t a bright spot in a sea of grey. No, he was feeling consistently good. He wasn’t seeing the world through rose colored glasses or anything, there was still the grey, but it was as if the grey didn’t really matter all that much, because the good was just so… good.

“I’m glad to hear it. I must say, you look good, you have more color, and you’re looking more relaxed. Are you sleeping better?”

“I am, yeah.” John nodded. “I feel like I’ve got more energy too. Once the weather warms up a bit, I may take up running again.”

“That’s excellent, John, really excellent. You’re a doctor, so I don’t have to tell you how running and exercises benefits mood and reduces stress.” Ella said, jotting something down. “And how about the nightmares, have there been any changes, any improvements?”

The nightmares, of course she was going to bring up the nightmares. Of course he still had the nightmares, not every night, not anymore, but still all too often he found himself on surrounded by sand and the cries of the men he couldn’t save. Though… though there had been a change, hadn’t there? The nightmares came less often, and then there was…

“It’s,” John paused. “They’re different now. Well, no. They’re the same dreams, but it’s not as bad now because…”

“Because of what, John?”

“Well… He’s never said anything about it, but I think Sherlock knows about them.” How could he not, his bedroom is directly below John’s, surely he’d hear the tossing and turning, and more embarrassingly, the whimpering.

“And that’s lessened the severity, someone being present and being aware of them?” Ella asked, again writing down notes.

“No, no.” If only it were that easy. “No, it just when they happen, they never really get the chance to get bad.”

“How so?”

Christ, this was embarrassing. He should have just lied, told her that they’d gone away or that he was better able to separate the dreams from reality. She’d still pry and get to the reason, but at least he wouldn’t sound so needy.

“What prevents to dreams from getting bad, John?” Ella prompted again when John didn’t answer.

“Sherlock, Sherlock happens. The dreams set in, I’m struggling to save some poor kid, or I’m just about to feel the bullet enter my shoulder, when I hear the violin. He’s downstairs, playing the violin, and it pulls me out of the nightmare, and it reminds me that I’m home, that I’m not over there anymore.”

“I see, and you believe him playing is keeping the nightmares at bay? Do you think he’s doing it on purpose, playing for you?”

"I wouldn’t say that his playing is keeping them at bay. It’s more the music calms me down and allows me to fall back asleep, when before when it would happen, I’d be awake for the rest of the night.”

“And you haven’t asked him about it, if it’s coincidence or if he’s actually playing for you?”

Why was she so interested in Sherlock’s playing all of the sudden? Wasn’t he meant to be here to unlock his own head, figuring out and heal his own problems, not for Ella to try and figure out Sherlock’s motivations?

“No, no I haven’t asked, and I don’t plan to. It’s not something I really want to talk about with my new flatmate ‘hey are you playing the violin to try and calm my tortured mind?’” John said, his tone perhaps a shade too bristly to be written off as a joke. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“That’s quite alright, John,” Ella said reassuringly, but wrote something else down all the same. “But you do think he’s playing on purpose.” It wasn’t a question.

“I do, yeah. He plays the violin a lot, he says it help him process his thoughts, but when I have a nightmare, he only ever plays one specific song, and he only ever plays it during a nightmare. He has to know, right?”

"Most likely yes. Based on what you’ve told me of him, he sounds incredibly perceptive. His playing is probably his way of offering comfort. By not making any mention of it, that may be him trying to respect your privacy. Your nightmares are deeply personal, and if you’ve yet to mention them to him, I’d imagine that’s why he’s not saying anything either.”

Respecting other people’s privacy? Keeping mum and not exposing deeply personal matters? That was not the Sherlock Holmes he had come to know. John would have laughed, but that would have only cased Ella to ask more questions, questions he didn’t care to answer.

“Well, whatever the reasons,” John shrugged, “it’s helping.”

“I can see that. Living with Sherlock has clearly been good for you, why do you think that is?”

“I don’t… I don’t know. What do you mean?” Seriously, how had this session become all about Sherlock?

“Well, John, it hasn’t even been three weeks since you moved in with him, but in that time, your sleep has improved, as has your general outlook, not to mention you’re looking much healthier. I know what you’re thinking, ‘how does this related to my state of mind’,” maybe Ella was a mind reader too, “but I want you to really think. Why do you think making the acquaintance of one, as you described him, ‘might be mad, but strangely likable’ man, bring about such a change in you?”

‘Might be mad, but strangely likable’, so she really did read his blog. Well, that was one question answered.  As for the other question, the question of what it was about living with Sherlock that brought him out of the grey, that took more thought.

“I think,” John started after a few silent minutes of Ella patiently watching him as he thought. “I think, I think it might be that he’s the first friend I’ve made post-Afghanistan.”

“Ok, and what does that mean?”

“Well, he…” John paused, “he didn’t know me before, he only knows who I am now. Not that there’s anything in my past that needs to be kept secret or anything,” he added quickly.

“Go on. Why is that important? Why might that be significant to you?”

“He’s not expecting me to be the exact same man I was before. Everyone else, my friends and family… Sherlock can’t be disappointed if… when I don’t act like the same old John Watson, because he never knew that John Watson. He doesn’t expect me to be anyone but who I am now. It’s freeing I guess, know that I can be this new version of myself, and still be able to connect with other people.”

“Freeing, interesting word choice. You no longer feel trapped, having to hide how your time over their changed you.”

“I guess… I guess, yeah.” John nodded. Christ, who knew befriending the man you pulled from a burning building could mean so much.

“So how are we channeling this new-found freedom? Have you given any thought to other types of relationships, maybe thought about dating?”

Dating? Oh Jesus.

"Not really no.” John admitted, and feeling a bit uncomfortable, focused on the waterfall in the corner of the room, instead of on Ella.

“There was someone the other day who might have had an interest, and I thought about getting their number, but no. I just… I just couldn't bring myself to ask, I don’t think I’m ready to start dating again just yet. I just got ok with making friends again,” he added with a self-deprecating chuckle.

“That’s perfectly alright, these things take time. How about the job hunt, how is that going?”

A change of topic, shifting away from Sherlock and what their friendship meant in regards to John’s psyche. Thank god. It wasn’t that he minded talking about Sherlock per say, but he certainly didn’t care for the notion that his flatmate, his friend, now somehow defined who he was. Yes, they befriended each other quite quickly, and John felt closer to Sherlock than he usually would anyone else he’d known for only a month, but Sherlock wasn’t a usual kind of person. Now that he really thought about it, John himself wasn’t a usual kind of person either, not really. There was nothing wrong with it, nothing wrong with an unusual friendship. And dating, John didn’t even want to think about dating.

Right, that was enough about that.

"Job hunt is looking good. An old friend from uni heads up a clinic, and she offered to put me in the rotation for some shifts. It’s just locum work for now, no concrete schedule, just filling in when they need me, but it’s a start.”

~***~

Something was off, it was different. John couldn’t say exactly what it was, but he knew something was definitely wrong. It was Friday, the last PT day of Sherlock’s first week as an outpatient, and the day had started off normally enough. Just like Monday, and just like Wednesday, Sherlock was already awake and dressed in his sweats by the time John came down from his room, and only put up a token argument when John made him eat something for breakfast. Just like Monday and Wednesday, the rode together to the clinic making comfortable, idle conversation about what they’d do afterwards, and John settled into his book in the waiting room when Sherlock was called back. Everything started off normal, but when Sherlock came back out an hour and a half later, that all changed.

Sherlock barely said two words after his session, just hobbled past John and out the door in a huff to hail cab. If John had allowed even ten second to gawk at Sherlock’s abruptness, he’d have been left standing on the street. As it was, Sherlock had already barked the address to the cabbie by the time John slid in after him.

"So I take it it’s straight home, then?” John asked, attempting to break the tension that had blanketed the cab.

Sherlock made a noncommittal grunt, and continued to scowl as he looked out the window.

 

Things did not improve as the day wore on. When they returned to Baker Street, Sherlock went straight for the couch, laying down with his back to the room, ignoring John completely. The sandwich and cup of tea John set on the coffee table was sneered at, watching something on telly was quickly nixed with a glare when John reached for the remote, and John was not stupid enough to attempt conversation. This was what Mycroft had meant when he said Sherlock sometimes had ‘black moods’. Well, it wasn’t anything John couldn’t deal with, and it would have to pass eventually.

The afternoon passed with Sherlock alternated between sighing, groaning, and muttering under his breath in a language John was fairly sure wasn’t English. It wasn’t until the third time Sherlock snapped at him, telling him he was walking, coughing – he coughed once – or breathing too loud, and to shut up, that John had finally had enough.

“Ok, that’s it, Sherlock. What’s the matter?” John asked. Enough was enough

“The matter? Nothing’s _the matter._ ” Sherlock didn’t even bother turning around, but John could still hear the sneer in his voice.

“Yes there is, you’ve been in a… in a funk ever since we got back. So come on, what is it?”

“Oh I’m in a funk am I?” Sherlock snapped. “And you think that by talking to you about it, I’ll what, suddenly be cured? I tell you _what’s the matter_ and everything will be right as rain, hmm? You must think quite highly of yourself to think one conversation with you will make everything better.”

John frowned, he knew people often lashed out at those closest to them, but this was ridiculous. He didn’t do anything to be the target of such ire. “Alright Sherlock, there’s no need to be a prick.” He said, perhaps a bit more curtly that he’d intended. “I was just trying to help.”

"Fine, you want to help? You want to know _what’s wrong_ , why I’m _in a funk_?” Sherlock said, finally turning around and sitting up rather violently. “I am a cripple, John! I cannot do my job. My work is who I am, and without it I am nothing. I’m useless, I’m less that useless! Now tell me, Dr. Watson, how do you propose we fix what’s _wrong_ with me?”

For perhaps twenty seconds, John was rendered speechless, unable to do anything but stare at Sherlock, trying to process one of the most absurd things he’d ever heard.

“Alright, you’re being ridiculous,” he finally said. “First of all, you’re not really crippled –”

“Really? I’m not crippled?” Sherlock spat. “I have not been rendered unable to walk, to move properly? I have not sustained severe and disabling damage? I have not been deprived of the ability to function normally?”

Christ, he sounded like he swallowed the damn OED.

“Temporarily, Sherlock, temporarily.” John sighed, rolling his eyes. “You broke your leg, you’re not in an iron lung.”

"I might as well be for all the good it does me.”

"Second,” John said, ignoring Sherlock’s interruption, “there are people who live with more severe disabilities, permanent disabilities, and they live perfectly normal, perfectly functional lives. Just relax.”

“Relax!?”

"Yes, relax. And finally, what’s this about you not having your work? That you’re useless? Lestrade’s brought you at least five cases so far to work on, and I’m sure there will be more coming soon.”

“Cold cases, John,” Sherlock huffed. “Measly scraps, that’s all they are. No active investigations, no suspects to chase down, not fresh samples to test.”

“But you’ve solved them, haven’t you?”

“Yes, because they’re pitiful. Lestrade is just handing off the easy cases he doesn’t want to bother wasting his time on. He’s just trying to placate me like I’m a child.”

“Well when you act like one…” John mumbled under his breath.

Sherlock didn’t respond, but he did narrow his eyes, so John continued, “It’s alright to take things easy for a little while. You did kind of have an entire house fall on top of you only a month ago, a burning one no less.”

“Exactly, John! It’s been an entire month! I should be back by now. I should be healed, I should be able to walk without a damn crutch. I should be better! But just look at me!”

“Sherlock, you’re getting worked up when you really don’t need to.” John sighed, trying to keep his tone level, trying to infuse as much calm into the tense atmosphere. “You have a mind that far outstrips every other living person, but your leg is still that of a human being, and you broke almost every bone in it, it’s going to take time to heal just like everyone else’s. Hell, you’re even ahead of the norm. Trust me, I know it sucks, really I do, but just give it time.”

"You know it sucks?” Sherlock sneered. “What do you know? You’ll never understand what it’s like to lose the thing that you’re meant to do, to be unable to do what makes you, you.”

And there it was, the straw that broke the camel’s back, and by the look in Sherlock’s eyes, he knew it too.

"I’ll never understand… I don’t know what it’s like?” John snapped. He was fuming, he was having trouble even finding the right words. “For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, I got fucking shot! Five seconds, five fucking seconds, and both my military career, and my career as a surgeon were gone.”

“John… I didn’t –”

"By the end of your physical therapy, you’ll have everything back. Your life, your work, everything. I got shit, I got it all taken away, and no matter what I do, how hard I work, I’ll never get it back again. I am figuring out my entire life all over again, so don’t fucking tell me I don’t understand!”

“John –”

"I don’t want to hear it, Sherlock. I try to help, I try to be a friend, and this is what I get. I need to be alone right now.” Then, not even waiting for Sherlock to reply, John got up, grabbed his laptop, and headed up to his room. He needed to cool off before he did something he regretted, before he said something he regretting.

 

He stayed upstairs for about an hour. He vented his annoyance into a blog entry – then deleted it, it was just meant to be cathartic anyway – he tried to read a few articles he’d bookmarked, then finally settled on doing the ‘meditative breathing’ Ella had suggested he do when thoughts of Afghanistan got to be too much, what he wouldn’t give for thoughts of Afghanistan right now.

John was just about calm enough to start thinking about going back down – it was his flat too, he had every right to use the sitting room – when there came in quick succession, the sound of glass smashing, a loud thump, and an even louder “Fuck!” in Sherlock’s distinctive voice coming from the bottom of the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger!!! What is John going to find at the bottom of the stairs?!?!?!
> 
> So today is my last day in Iceland with my sister before I return home, so I'm already sad. Then this morning, my phone got stuck in a perpetual reboot loop, and no matter what, nothing will fix it. I'm going to take it in when I get home (fingers crossed I make it back from the airport tomorrow before the store closes) but I fear I'm going to either need a factory reset or a new phone. Either way, I'm pretty sure I'm going to lose ALL my pictures, not just from this trip (minus those I took on my ipod today and the few I posted to facebook) but also everything from the past 2 and a half years. To say I'm SUPER sad is an understatement. I cried the entire way back to my room. I do have a nice dinner and hanging out with my sister this evening to look forward to, but still, I'm pretty blue.
> 
> Nothing will fix my phone, but maybe some of your lovely comments could put a bit of a smile on my face. Plus they can calm me for my flight


	9. A Painful Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a few short minutes, with a few stupid words, Sherlock ruined everything. John was going to leave, and it was entirely his fault. Sherlock had to act fast, he had to fix this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back home safe and sound, and I got a new phone. I did end up losing all my photos, but what can I do.
> 
> Now on to the conclusion of last chapter's cliffhanger...

Shit, shit, shit! He’d done it, he’d really done it this time. He did the one thing he was fighting so hard not to do, he’d driven John away.

John had been up in his room for over an hour. The floorboards had creaked periodically for the first thirty- eight minutes, suggesting John was restless and pacing. For the past twenty-seven minutes, though, it was dead silent. John was thinking something over, he was deciding something. Any moment now John was going to come down the stairs with his things packed, and he was going to tell Sherlock that he’d had enough and that he was out of his life for good. And all because of what? Because Sherlock was thoughtless and incapable of keeping himself in check. Because he was restless and tired of crutches, and therapy, and being unable to properly use his leg for a couple months. A couple damn months, that’s all.

John had been the first friend he’d actually managed to make on his own – Mrs. Hudson was a client who’d taken on a motherly affection for him, Lestrade needed him to solve cases, and Molly just liked having some company in the lab from time to time – and he had snapped at him. John was now sure to leave, and Sherlock would be back to square one. It was worse than square one, because now he knew what it was like to have a real friend, to have John.

Think. He needed to think. He had an extraordinary mind; if he used it, he could find a way to fix everything. He just needed to think. He’d have asked Mrs. Hudson, but she left for her sisters that morning – really inconvenient that. What would she suggest? Apologize, obviously, but he couldn’t just say “Sorry, John. I was rude” and leave it at that.

Could he bribe him to stay? No, no that wouldn’t work, John was not one to take bribes.

A peace offering. Yes, a peace offering could work. It’s not as overt as a bribe, but it’s the same general idea. What else? An apology and a peace offering were a start, but he needed something else. He had been inconsiderate, accidentally reminding and belittling a painful part of John’s past, perhaps he should offer up a painful part of his past. That’s what friends did, right, share difficult things with each other? It would certainly show that Sherlock valued John’s as a friend, trusting him with something so personal.

Sherlock didn’t need to think long to figure out exactly what he was going to share with John; it was obvious really, and it actually spoke partially to why he acted the way he did. The funny thing was, the thought of letting John know that part of him, it didn’t worry him. If Sherlock was being honest, he actually wanted John to know. Now, just to figure out the peace offering.

 

Sherlock had only made it to the second step before it all came tumbling down, quite literally. Trying to maneuver stairs on crutches with one’s hands full was obviously never going to work. The bottle he’d been holding slipped from his grasp, and in his attempt to catch it, Sherlock dropped one crutch, lost his balance, and crashed against the wall. He was able to half catch himself, but ended up on the ground all the same. That’s how John found him when he came bursting out of his room not three seconds later, on the ground at the bottom of the steps, surrounded by scattered biscuits, broken glass, and spilt beer.

“Christ, Sherlock! Are you alright?” John asked, already down the stairs and helping Sherlock to his feet.

“I’m fine, really I’m fine. My leg’s fine, I managed to fall on my right side.” Sherlock muttered. “Just hand me my crutch.”

“Yeah, here. What were you doing?”

“I was attempting to go upstairs. As you can see, I was not successful. Just give me a second, and I’ll clean this up.”

“I can do that, it’s fine. You go sit down, and then I’ll check your leg. Forgive me if I don’t trust your ‘I’m fine’ assessment.” John didn’t sound annoyed anymore. If anything, he sounded amused. Maybe Sherlock humiliating himself was enough to get him to stay.

“So, are you going to tell me what all that was about?” John asked a few minutes later, after he’d cleaned up the landing and finished giving Sherlock’s leg a once over. Sherlock’s leg really was fine.

“I told you, I was trying to go upstairs and I lost my footing, that’s all.”

“I figured out that much for myself, thanks. I mean what were you doing coming upstairs? And what was with the biscuits and beer?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” John wasn’t really going to make him say it. Apparently he was. “I had intended to go upstairs to apologize for my actions earlier. It is also my understanding that some sort of offering is appropriate in such situations, with food and or drink being the most common choices.”

“You were coming to say sorry with a bottle of beer and a box of biscuits?”

“I was attempting to, yes. It was an ill-conceived plan, there’s no need to laugh.”

“Oh Sherlock, no, I’m not laughing at you.” John said, the traces of laughter still in his voice, “I think it was kind of… sweet.”

“Sweet?! John, bite your tongue. I am not now, nor have I ever been, sweet.” Sherlock bulked as John shook his head, still chuckling to himself. “I am sorry, though.” He eventually added, once John had sobered a little.

 “Really?”

Sherlock sighed and kept his eyes fixed on his hands which were folded in his lap. He found it far easier to not actually look at John while he spoke. “Yes,” he said. “What I said before, it was thoughtless and cruel, and for that I am sorry. I didn’t mean to belittle your time abroad, or your injuries. I wasn’t thinking.”

“You really weren’t. That all?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. No, also for how I acted since returning to the flat this afternoon. I took out the issues that I have with… with medical centers, I took them out on you, and that was not fair of me. You did not deserve to be the target when they are my own problems,” he said in nearly one breath, before stopping. The next part proved far harder than he had anticipated.

It was quiet for a few moments, Sherlock still staring defiantly at his own lap, when a tentative hand came to settle on top of Sherlock’s tangled fingers. The touch startled him, he hadn’t even realized that John had come to sit on the couch next to him. Sherlock still didn’t look up, though, he just noted the contrast of John’s tanned skin against his own pale white hands. They were so different.

“Forgive me if I’m overstepping,” John said, his voice sounding hesitant. That was new, Sherlock thought to himself, someone worrying that they were invading his privacy, “but does this have anything to do with your past, and… and you having had to go to – to rehab?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up, and he found himself looking at John for the first time since the conversation started. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting John to say, but whatever it had been, it wasn’t that.

“How… how do you know about that?” he asked, his words coming out far too shaky for his liking. “Did Mycroft tell you?” How dare he. It was not his secret to tell, it was not his past to divulge. The next time he saw Mycroft, he was going to kill him. He was at least informing Mummy, that much was certain.

“No, your brother didn’t tell me anything. I figured it out for myself.”

“What?” Sherlock frowned. John figured it out? “How? When?”

“Shortly after I moved in, when I was still helping you dress your burns. I saw the scars… the ones on the inside of your elbow. Those, coupled with the low dose of pain meds and your reluctance to be admitted into an in-patient facility for your PT… it wasn’t a huge leap.”

“Oh.” Sherlock said quietly, looking back down at his lap. John was a doctor, of course he would have noticed the marks, of course he would have been able to figure out what they meant.

“I hope you know this doesn’t change anything, Sherlock.” John said softly, his hand covering Sherlock’s curling slightly. “You having a past, something we all have, doesn’t change the fact that you’re still the same mad genius who chases bombers into abandon houses, and solves crimes for fun. You’re still the same nutter who I befriended in the hospital, and who convinced me to move in with him after only a week.” He added with a smile. “You’re clearly clean, and that’s the important thing.”

“Five and a half years.”

“What?”

“That’s how long I’ve been clean for, five and a half years.”

“Five and a half years, that’s like a lifetime ago. You don’t want I was like five and a half years ago.”

Ridiculous, John was saving lives and serving Queen and Country five and a half years ago, John was the far better man. Sherlock found himself smiling all the same.

“Oh yes, John, I’m sure you were an absolute nightmare.” He said with a roll of his eyes.

“You don’t have the first clue.” John laughed, then once again grew serious. “But that was the reason for your mood earlier today, right? Your past stay in rehab?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded. “While now I’m glad that my family forced me to go, and I know it was the right decision, I hated every second I was in there. The boredom, the pain of withdrawals, and there was no escape. When I got out, I told myself I was never setting foot in another rehabilitation center again.”

Sherlock couldn’t believe how good it felt to tell John all of this, to talk about his past, to talk about rehab. He had never talked to his parents or Mrs. Hudson about his time there – not for lack of trying on their parts – but with John it all came rushing out, and Sherlock didn’t mind. He actually liked it, it was like a weight lifting off his shoulders. Once he started, he didn’t want to stop. John listened, he understood, he didn’t judge, and he forgave Sherlock his abominable behavior – along with the understanding that he not _‘act like a tit like that again’_. It was wonderful.

Sherlock talked and John listened until one of their stomachs – Sherlock couldn’t tell whose it was exactly – gave a low grumble, and John realized that it was nearing seven o’clock.

“Might as well make something for dinner,” John said, getting up and heading for the kitchen. “I think I saw some chicken and a bag of peas in the freezer yesterday.”

Sherlock let out a private sigh of relief as he watched John dig through the cabinets, pulling out various pans and dishes. He hadn’t driven him away.

 

Sherlock mumbled his thanks when John handed him a plate and they settled into their meal in companionable silence. Whatever it was John made – some sort of creamy thing with chicken, rice, and peas – it was delicious.  John shrugged off the compliment, saying it was his Nan’s recipe of throwing what you had into a casserole dish and baking for an hour. With a shared smile and small chuckle, the quiet resumed, and they tucked back into their food. Or at least John started eating again, Sherlock found himself watching John, thinking how best to say what he wanted to say next.

There had been a question weighing on Sherlock’s mind since nearly the beginning of their acquaintance. He had held back for fear of driving John away, but they had settled into their living arrangements, John seemed content, and if he hadn’t packed it in after what had just happened, maybe it was safe to ask. And John had sort of opened the door himself after all.

“John?” He said finally, his voice a little hesitant.

Don’t let this be a mistake. Don’t let this undo the apology.

“Hmm?”

“How much did you need? Physical therapy, I mean.”

A small crease formed between John’s brows. “How much? You mean how long it took?” Sherlock nodded. “Twice a week for just over two months, but that was only after the month and a half I spent in hospital. I’m a little surprised you even asked.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to frown. “What’s so surprising, I can take an interest in other people’s lives.”

“I’m not saying you can’t. No, I’m just surprised you hadn’t deduced it all in that split second you ran past me. This is just one more thing I’ve had to tell the world’s most talented consulting detective.” John said with a smirk. “I didn’t know I was such an enigma.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Some things manage to slip by even me from time to time; not much, but some.” He would have needed to see the path the bullet took in order to make a somewhat accurate deduction, and asking to examine John’s shoulder would probably have been a step too far. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to get a look, though. Everything about John, about his time in Afghanistan, was fascinating to him, and Sherlock wanted to know about all of it, even about what sent him home.

“But it was successful, so it was clearly worth it, right?” He added, when he realized they were just staring at each other, neither one talking.

“I got full feeling and range of motion back, so I’d say so. I mean, it’s still aches at times, and I have that transient tremor, so like I said, being a surgeon again is out of the question.”

“And that’s why you’re looking into work as a GP, the decrease in your fine motor skills.” It wasn’t a question.

“Pretty much, yeah. I can still use my training and the skills I have left to help people. It may not be exactly what I want, but at least it’s something.”

John was making due. He had his world completely flipped on its head, and did he dwell and wallow in self-pity? No, he dealt with it, and figured out what to do next. God, how he didn’t think Sherlock was the most pathetic man to walk the earth, Sherlock didn’t know.

“So why only locum work?” Sherlock asked. “Surely full-time work would be the better option. Not that I want you out of the flat or anything,” he added quickly, “your presence these past few weeks has made this whole ordeal far more manageable.”

Smiling, John shook his head “Ah, glad to hear it. Do want the honest answer?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Because honestly, after Afghanistan and the combat hospital, working as a GP diagnosing head colds and ear infections, is going to be so boring.” John sighed. “For now, locum work is pretty much all I think I can handle. It lets me dip my toe back in the water, lets me get used to the boredom and build up a tolerance for it before I go for full-time.”

John was an adrenaline junkie, he acted on instinct and jumped in feet first. John had a reckless streak just like Sherlock – maybe he wasn’t as reckless as Sherlock, hardly anyone was – of course he’d find the life of an ordinary GP dreadfully dull.

Maybe… maybe there was something he could do about that. “I don’t know if you’d be interested,” Sherlock said, “but maybe once Lestrade lets me back onto crime scenes again, you could come along on a case or two. It’s not war torn Afghanistan or anything, but I’ve always thought of London as a battlefield of sorts.”

“Why is it that I don’t find that very hard to believe, that with you, London is a battlefield?” John smirked. Not immediately opposed to the idea, excellent.

“Everywhere is, as long as you know where to look.”

“Now that I can believe.” John laughed. “And if you’re serious about that invite…”

“I am. I’ve valued your input on the cold cases so far.”

“Then God yes, I absolutely want to come along. Are you sure it’ll be alright with Greg?”

“Greg?” Sherlock frowned.

 “Lestrade.” Oh.

“John, please,” Sherlock scoffed, “if they need me on a case, which they always do, they’ll hardly turn you away. You’d be my medical consultant. Two consultants for the price of one, they’d be idiots to say no to that.”

“I thought you said that the majority of Scotland Yard were idiots.” John countered, one eyebrow raised, a smile playing on his lips.

“They are, I meant even more so.”

“Ah. Well in that case, hurry up and heal; I want to get out there and see this battlefield of London of yours.”

“I’m working on it.” Sherlock grinned, and returned to his meal, his chest feeling lighter than it had in a long time. The promise of an actual live crime scene with John. Finally, someone else with whom to share it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course they were going to make up, this is John and Sherlock we're talking about (if only they'd _kiss_ and make up, amiright?)
> 
> Next up: Physical therapy takes an interesting twist, and Lestrade stops by with something interesting
> 
> So like I said, I have a new phone, and I think it would be a good idea to test whether or not the notifications work properly. Emails from AO3 notifying me that I have comments could do the trick. How about you send me some?!


	10. A Friendly Face for an Overexcited Toddler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an incredibly close call, Sherlock commits to his therapy and to never running the risk of driving John away. Funnily enough, good behavior reaps rewards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, things are starting to get a little flirty. This is another semi-filler chapter, but with maybe some good stuff pepper in (if I do say so myself)

“Sherlock, I’m just finishing up with my last patient, but you can come on back.” Heather said, popping her head into the waiting area of the clinic.

It had been nearly two weeks since what he thought of as ‘The Incident’, and Sherlock had fully committed himself to his physical therapy. He took Heather’s word as gospel, followed every one of her instructions, and even did all the at home exercises she assigned. That wasn’t to say he didn’t still get frustrated at or complain about the rate of his progress at times, he wanted it done faster, but he never let his upset get the better of him, not like before, and he never let himself take it out on John, never again.

“I didn’t mention it any earlier,” Heather started as they began their warm-up stretches, “I find getting on track with the regimen is imperative and takes precedence over everything else, but once my patients get to this stage in their recovery, and they're keeping to the plan, then it’s ok if they want to bring someone back with them to help out or just for the company.”

“What do you mean, bring someone back?” Sherlock asked, feeling justifiably confused. It wasn’t like someone else could do the stretches and exercises for him.

“I mean John. A lot of my patients have their boyfriends and girlfriends come in with them. That extra support at this stage seems to make things go smoother, and actually seems to help speed up recovery time a bit too.”

Sherlock frowned. Patients’ boyfriends and girlfriends?

Oh. She thought John was…

“John’s not… he’s not my boyfriend.” Sherlock clarified quickly. Why did he just do that? It was true, John _wasn’t_ his boyfriend, but it wasn’t like it mattered. Why should he care if she thought they were dating?

“He’s not? Oh, I’m sorry. I just assumed since…”

“Since what?”

“Well, you two live together don’t you?” Sherlock nodded. “Right, and then he always sits and waits for you. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“No need to apologize. But no, we’re not together like that.”

“Well, he’s pretty cute, so you could definitely do worse.” Heather said with a laughed. “Right… sorry, I should really get off this subject.”

Sherlock, not really knowing how to respond, and honestly starting to feel just a little uncomfortable, just hummed.

“But just so you know, it’s not just boyfriends and girlfriends who can come back. All types of friends and family are welcome too, so if you still would like John here to help out.”

“I will keep that in mind. May we begin the session now?”

At this, Heather blushed, obviously embarrassed by the past few minutes of conversation. “Yes, of course. Let’s head over to the steps and get started with a set of stair climbs.”

 

It wasn’t until the session was done, and he and John were leaving, that Sherlock starting thinking about what Heather had said. Not the part about her mistaking John for his boyfriend – that was absurd – but about John possibly joining them during his sessions. John did already help him with some of the at-home exercises, so it wouldn’t be so outlandish to ask, and John was a doctor who’d undergone physical therapy himself. It couldn’t hurt to ask, what was the worst that could happen? John would simply decline and that would be that.

“John,” Sherlock started. They were nearly home, and he figured he might as well just get it over with.

John turned from looking out the window to face Sherlock. “Hmm?”

“Heather said something today, or rather she suggested it.”

“Yeah?”

“She said… um… she said you can come back in with me… if you wanted.” Why was he stumbling, it was just a simple request? Not even a request, he was just finding out whether or not John was interested. It was nothing.

John frowned. “Back in with you?”

“With me during my physical therapy,” Sherlock explained. “According to her, at this stage a friendly face can make things go smoother and speed up the recovery process. You know, support, encouragement, all that rot.”

“Oh, right.” John then grew quite for a couple seconds, before nodding. “Well… would you want me to come in with you?” He asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “You’re more than welcome to if you want. It doesn’t really matter.”

What was he saying? Of course it mattered. It mattered, Sherlock wanted John to say yes, to come back and help with the exercises. He wanted John there to roll his eyes with when Heather said something asinine, or to offer praise when he managed a milestone in his recovery – or give words of encouragement if things went the other way. He wanted John there, he wanted John to say yes.

Sherlock’s true wishes probably showed on his face, because a grin broke out on John’s, and with a little huff of laughter, John said he didn’t see why not.

Finally, Sherlock thought as he found himself grinning back, physical therapy might actually become bearable. 

 

* * *

 

“John, I’ve changed my mind.” Came Sherlock’s voice from behind the canvas curtain.

“About what?”

“I’m not going in the pool.”

“You’re not? Why not?” John asked, he had a feeling this would happen. It was Sherlock’s first water therapy session, and to say Sherlock was hesitant would have been an understatement.

Sherlock’s head popped out of changing cubicle, the curtain held tightly shut blow his neck. “It was a stupid idea, I shouldn’t have agreed in the first place. I’m not doing it.”

Yep, he was definitely well passed hesitant. John had to bite his lip from laughing.

“Oh come on, Sherlock, the water’s probably only three and a half feet deep, if that, you’re in no danger of drowning.” He teased. “But I promise, I’m right here and I’ll pull you out if you slip under.”

“I know how to swim, John,” Sherlock’s floating head huffed, “that is not the issue.”

“Ok, so what is the issue?”

“Well for one, public swimming pools are incredibly unhygienic. It’s probably teeming with waterborne pathogens.”

John let out a sigh. If this was the type of push-back Heather had to deal with, he was nominating the woman for sainthood.

“This is not a public pool, this is a posh private medical facility. The water is chlorinated, and it’s fine. What else is bothering you?”

Sherlock frowned and grumbled something about the inefficiency of chlorine before his head disappeared back behind the curtain. “Even if the pool water is sanitary, which a strongly suspect it isn’t, I’m going to look like a drowned rat. And this swimsuit you bought me, it’s all wrong.”

Even though Sherlock couldn’t see him, John still rolled his eyes. Vanity, thy name is Sherlock Holmes.

“You’re the one how gave me your measurements, it’s not my fault if they were wrong and the trunks don’t fit.”

“Fit is not the issue, John.” John could hear the scowl. “It’s the pattern, it’s garish!”

“Well then you should have come with me when I went to the shops.” John stifled a snicker, remembering the moment he spotted the trunks.

“I thought your poor taste was limited to jumpers, and that you’d never inflict _this_ on me!” Sherlock said, and with all the theatrics of an old Hollywood diva, pulled back the curtain.

There before him stood Sherlock, a frown firmly set on his face, in a pair of pale blue swim trunks covered in orange birds. John failed to keep a snort of laughter from escaping his lips.

“See, you just proved my point.” Sherlock huffed, his scowl deepening. “Everyone is going to look at me like I’m an idiot. I look like an idiot.”

“Awww… that’s because you are an idiot.” John chuckled. “But you look fine, honestly. No one’s going to care, no one’s going to look twice at you.”

That wasn’t strictly true, people were probably going to take second or even third looks at Sherlock, but the blue and orange bird shorts would have nothing to do with it. For someone so thin, Sherlock was surprisingly well muscled. It wasn’t the bulky muscles gained from hours of rigorous strength training John was used to seeing on the men in the army, but a lean muscle with which some were just naturally blessed. And the faint scaring left over from Sherlock’s burns that lined half of his otherwise pale and pristine torso just added to the picture. Yes, people were definitely going to take notice, though perhaps John shouldn’t be focusing so much on his flatmate and friend’s physique.

“You think you’re funny, but you’re really not.” Sherlock grumbled, completely oblivious to the what had just been going on in John’s head.

That was probably for the best, John thought, he couldn’t have Sherlock getting the wrong idea and complicating things.

“I’m a little bit funny. Now grab your towel, and let’s get out there, Heather’s waiting for you.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but complied nonetheless.

“And why is it that I’m the only one doing this?” he asked, automatically holding on to John’s arm for support. Given the nature of the pool facility, the risk of slipping was far too great for crutches – though Sherlock had started going without them in the flat – and Sherlock had made clear he was not going to use the wheelchair usually used by patients. “You’re supposed to be helping me with my recovery, so why aren’t you wearing a pair of ridiculously patterned shorts and jumping into the pathogen infested water with me?”

“Insurance I’m afraid.” John said, letting out a dramatic and unconvincing sigh. “You know I’d love to be in there, splashing about,” he really wouldn’t, he hated pool therapy when he had to do it, “but I’m not covered by the clinic’s insurance. It’s hands off when we’re in this building, I’m just your pretty cheerleader.”

“You have your hands on my right now.”

John felt himself blush. Sherlock probably hadn’t realized how that sounded. “What can I say, I like to challenge The Man from time to time,” he mumbled. “But getting you from Point A to Point B is hardly the same as me physically taking you through your therapy regime.”

“No, we’ll just do it when we get home.”

John blushed even harder, he had to get his juvenile mind out of the gutter. Sherlock didn’t mean it like that, he told to himself, Sherlock didn’t mean it like that.

Fortunately, John was spared having to think of some sort of response as they’d reached the pool, and Heather, eager to get the session underway, swept in to guide Sherlock the rest of the way.

With Heather busy getting Sherlock acquainted with their plan for the next hour and a half, John settled himself off to the side, far enough away so as to not get in the way, but close enough to still be able talk to Sherlock. That seemed to be the only reason Sherlock wanted John to come along with him to his therapy sessions, he seemed to just want John there to talk to, to continue whatever conversation they’d been having, or to act as a sounding board for his latest mad stream of consciousness. As long as Sherlock did what he was told, and he did, Heather didn’t seem to mind – John suspected she liked not having the entirety of Sherlock’s focus on her – so that’s just what John did; he sat, talked, and listened.

That willingness to oblige Sherlock turned out to be his undoing, because no sooner had John gotten comfortable, than there was a loud slapping sound, and a sizeable splash of water spattered John’s entire left side.

Sherlock’s deep laugh echoed off the tiled walls, practically filling the entire room. “Consider that payback for these ghastly shorts.”

“I take back everything I said before.” John called back, using Sherlock’s towel to dry himself off, his own laughter long since joining Sherlock’s “You definitely do look like a drowned rat!”

~***~

Sherlock’s improvement had been nothing short of stunning; it was like nothing John had ever seen. In the few short weeks that John had started accompanying him to therapy, Sherlock had progressed by leaps and bounds. He no longer used his crutches in the flat, navigating back and forth slowly but with ease, though John did see him occasionally trail his hand along the backs furniture or the walls as he went. Going down stairs still posed a bit of a challenge, and he still grew tired going more than the a few lengths of the flat in one go, thus he relied on his crutches – or John – when they went out.

All things considered though, his recovery was well ahead of schedule, and as a result, his attitude and mood were on a noticeable upswing as well. He would grumble from time to time, mostly whenever he had to grab his crutches or lean on something – usually John – for support, and he would still call John an idiot on a fairly regular basis – it was said with affection, though, John was sure of it – but most of the time Sherlock was positively… positive. Then, about half-way through his third month of recovery, Sherlock’s mood took another massive boost when Lestrade came by with an active case and the news that the higher ups had given him the go-ahead to let Sherlock consult again. John thought Sherlock’s grin would outshine the sun.

 

Lestrade had barely gotten the words out of his mouth before Sherlock was pushing himself off the couch “Coat, I’ll need my coat,” he said whilst doing an excited one footed dance-hoop towards the hall where their coats were hanging.

“And your crutches, you’re not leaving this flat without your crutches.” John called after him, fighting to keep the amusement out of his voice. Honestly, Sherlock was like a giant toddler excited for playtime, never mind the fact that this playtime most likely involved a dead body.

Sherlock completely ignored John, which was typical, choosing instead to address the Detective Inspector. “Lestrade, text me the address.”

Lestrade stood in the sitting room for several moments, looking in silence at where Sherlock stood in the hallway getting on his coat. “What, just like that? Aren’t you going to ask for any of the details, try to determine if it’s worth the time?” he asked.

“At the moment, I don’t care how simple or obvious it is, it’s a case! You can fill us in when we get there.”

“We? Are you using the Royal We now?” Lestrade chuckled.

“What? Don’t be ridiculous, Lestrade.” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “We as in John and me.”

Lestrade turned to at John who had already grabbed Sherlock’s crutches for him – it was just easier that way – and was in the process of putting on his own coat. “Oh, are you coming along too?”

“Of course he is, Lestrade.” Sherlock said before John could respond. “I’d be lost without my nursemaid.” He added with a teasing grin. Arse.

“Well someone’s got to make sure you don’t overdo it and ruin all those weeks of hard work.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Sherlock smirked.

“Didn’t think so. But I am serious, Sherlock, I’ve seen how wrapped up you get with the cold ones.” That was putting it mildly, Sherlock would descend into his mind palace and grow so still that on more than one occasion John had to check to see if he was still breathing. “I really want you to be careful out there.”

“I know, John. I will be.”

“Promise me that if I say you need to stop and rest, or even if I think we ought to come home, you’ll do it?”

Perhaps sensing how serious John was, Sherlock sobered and slowly nodded. “Yes, John. I promise.”

“I honestly didn’t think I’d live to see the day.” Came Lestrade’s voice from somewhere behind them. For a moment, John had honestly forgotten that he was even there. “That may be the single most impressive thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“What is?” John asked, while Sherlock just raised a questioning eyebrow.

“That.” Lestrade said, waving his hand towards the two of them. “Someone ordering Sherlock around, and him actually listening.”

“Oh that. Well, you know what they say, Greg,” John chuckled as he watched Sherlock roll his eyes and head down the stairs with far more grace and ease than he’d seen him do it before, “sometimes children just need a firm hand.”

Yep, Sherlock was definitely an overexcited toddler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Sherlock's swimsuit IS the same one Benedict Cumberbatch has been photographed in multiple times. It's a great suit! Next time we see the boys finally out together on a case, and all the good stuff that comes with it!
> 
> Today would be my grandma's 100th birthday (I hope her spirit isn't mad at me for revealing her age). Now I was one of my grandma's favorite granddaughters (tied with my sister), and she would probably love it if my beautiful readers left their smart, insightful, and wonderful comments. Come on, do it for my Mamo


	11. Lethal Lather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After nearly three months, it was finally happening, Sherlock was out on a case, and with John no less. Oh, it was better Christmas!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this chapter so much, this was one of the first scenes I outlined. I loved it then, and I love it now.

A case; an actual, real case! After months with only drop in the bucket cold cases, Sherlock was finally going out to investigate an active case. Not only that, but he was out of the flat, he had something to do that wasn’t a doctor’s appointment, physical therapy, or John insisting he needed a change of scenery and dragging him out to Regent’s Park or along with him on a Tesco run. Sherlock could have kissed Lestrade when he showed up, and he could have kissed John when he didn’t have any problems with Sherlock going.

A case!

 

At the moment, Sherlock was sat in the lab at Bart’s reading over the victim’s toxicology report, while John was in the mortuary having a look at the body. Just as they were about to leave Baker Street, Lestrade got a text saying that one of the not Molly pathologist – Sherlock didn’t see the point in bothering to learn their names – had finished up the post mortem, and Sherlock decided to it was best to start there before heading over to the scene of crime, or scene of possible crime as the case may be.

Helen Stoner found her sister Julia, thirty-two, dead on her bathroom floor after not hearing from her sister for three days. According to the not-Molly, the cause of death was sudden cardiac arrest. The only problem, however, was that Julia was an avid runner, in peak physical health, and her medical history showed no heart problems; there was no family history either. A toxicology screen was run to look for any drugs in her system – the most common cause of cardiac arrest in those without heart problems – and it showed she was completely clean. While there were no drugs present, the screen did show traces of an unidentified poison, and it was that poison that lead to the heart failure and Julia’s untimely death.

Now the only questions that remained were, what was the poison, how did it get in Julia’s system, and who – if anyone – put it there? Sherlock had a theory, four theories actually, he just needed a little bit more data. He needed to get into Julia’s flat, but that could wait until John completed his examination.

 

“Uh, Sherlock?” Lestrade said hesitantly as he sat down at the bench across from Sherlock. It was about time he spoke, Sherlock could sense him hovering over his shoulder, watching him for at least five minutes.

“Yes?” Sherlock replied, not bothering to look up.

“I want to ask you something, and just ignore me if I’m being too forward –”

“If you feel it is necessary to preface your question with such a statement, then chances are you are being too forward.”

Lestrade hummed, seemingly to himself, and paused for a moment. “Yeah, I’m still going to ask. You and John, what’s the story?”

That got Sherlock’s attention. “Me and John?” he said and automatically glanced towards the door that led to the hallway that lead to the mortuary. “What are you talking about, Lestrade? What story?”

“You and John, are you two… you know.”

Lestrade was embarrassed. Interesting.

“No, I don’t know.” He had an idea.

“Are you two, you know… together?”

Lestrade was very embarrassed; Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Are we together? If you mean are we frequently within proximity of each other, then yes. If you are inquiring into whether there is some sort of romantic or sexual entanglement between us, then the answer is no, we are not _together_.”          

First Heather, now Lestrade; not to mention the looks and little comments Mrs. Hudson has taken to dropping. What was making everyone assume there was something more going on between him and John?

“Are you sure?” Lestrade said, looking skeptical. “It’s more than fine if you are; no one’s going to judge you or think of you any differently for it. And hey,” he added with a little chuckle, “you could definitely do worse than John.”

Sherlock didn’t doubt that. It was probably best he not continue on that particular train of thought. “Why Lestrade,” he said in an attempt to shift the conversation, “I had no idea your interests ventured beyond the fairer sex. I can’t make any guarantees, but I’m sure I can put in a good word for you with John if you wish.”

“Ah, funny, very funny. But I’m actually being serious, Sherlock. If you two aren’t together –”

“We are not.”

“Well, if you’re interested, I think you definitely have a shot with him.”

“A shot?” Sherlock said incredulously. Had they been transported back to secondary school? It was as if Lestrade was trying to set shy, awkward Sherlock up with the cute new boy in class. Ridiculous.

“The man did save your life, only to move in with you a week later. Not only that, but you also listen to what he says, and now you two are here solving cases…” Lestrade’s voice trailed off as his eyebrows rose.

“And that constitutes a romantic relationship?” Sherlock said flatly. “And here I was thinking I’d just made a friend. I can have friends you know.”

“Oh right, a friend. Because my mates and I look at each other and act the way you two do all the time.”     

“I have no idea –” Sherlock started to say, but was cut off by the lab door opening.

“Oh good, you’re both here,” John said as he entered, “there’s something here you both ought to see.” And just like that, all of Lestrade’s preposterous ideas were pushed to the back of Sherlock’s mind. There was a case to be solved.

During his examination, John had found two small puncture marks on Julia’s ankle that the not-Molly decided was a snake bite, and the probable entry point of the unknown toxin in Julia’s system.

“But look,” John said, pointing to the puncture wounds, “there’s no inflammation. I’m not an expert, but I did see my fair share of snake bites in Afghanistan. Unless the bite happened post mortem, there should be some swelling and inflammation; some redness at the very least.” 

Sherlock beamed. John was… well he wasn’t a genius, but he was pretty damn smart. Sherlock could count on one hand the number of people he met in the entirety of his thirty-three years that he could describe as ‘pretty damn smart.’ John wasn’t just smart, though, he also seemed to inspire genius in others, in Sherlock. In the past few months, with just the cold cases, he had the tendency to say something, or notice something, and it would be just the spark Sherlock needed to finally see the whole picture and put everything together. Obviously Sherlock would have seen it and solve it anyway, but John’s presence seemed to speed up the process. John made Sherlock faster, better, they wasted less time.  And Lestrade wondered why Sherlock brought John along. Lestrade really was an idiot.

“Excellent! Lestrade,” Sherlock said, turning to the Detective Inspector who was jotting down notes, “I think it’s time we pay a visit to the late Ms. Stoner’s flat.”

“Yeah, alright. I figured you’d want to have a look.” Obviously, Sherlock thought. It took everything in him to keep from saying it aloud. “I’ve got someone there holding down the scene. I’ll just call and let them know we’re on our way.”

“Someone at the scene? Who?” Sherlock asked cautiously, already knowing and dreading the answer.

Lestrade didn’t bother even answering, but the look on his face said it all.

~***~

“Oh, Boss, tell me you didn’t.”

Because of course it was the dulcet tones of Sargent Sally Donovan that greeted him at his first crime scene in nearly three months. Of course Sally had to be there at his first ever active crime scene with John, not counting the one at which they had met and he had been nearly blown up.

“Easy, Sargent,” Lestrade said sternly, cutting Sherlock off before he could say anything. “I invited him and I want him to have a look around.”

It was probably for the best that Lestrade cut him off, Sherlock didn’t want John’s first crime scene marred by petty – on Sally’s part, not his – insults and bickering. John was bound to learn how the Yard, save for Lestrade, viewed him sooner or later, and Sherlock preferred to put it off for as long as possible.

“I don’t see why, we’ve carried on perfectly well without him.” Sally grumbled. “And you have to admit, Boss, these past few months have been so peaceful.”

“And our average time to closure increased by over a third. They’re having a look, and I don’t want any argument, that’s final.”

“They? Who’s they?” Sally frowned, then looking past Sherlock, finally seemed to spot John standing there. “Wait, who are you?” She asked. “This is a crime scene, Freak, not a show and tell. You can’t just bring random people in.”

So much for no insults at John’s first crime scene.

“This is my colleague.” Sherlock said, just as John answered “I’m his friend.”

Sherlock had to stop for a moment, and turned back to look at John. Friend, that’s what came to mind first, not Sherlock’s flatmate, not Sherlock’s associate, or even a joking nursemaid, but friend.

“This is my friend and colleague, John Watson.” He said with a smile.

“John Watson…” Sally grew quiet for a moment, before it dawned on her. “Oh right, you’re the bloke who got him out of that building.”

“Yeah, that’s me.” John’s tone had a bit of a chill to it, and Sherlock once again had to keep from smiling. Clearly John was far more perceptive and a better judge of character than he had given him credit for.

“And what, he followed you home did he?” Sally said, laughing at her own joke.

“Other way around actually,” John replied, “I was looking for a new place to live, he had an extra room, so we’re flatmates too.”

“Flatmate? You serious?” When John didn’t bother answering, his face remaining impassive and blank that even Sherlock had trouble determining what was going through his head, Sally turned back the Sherlock. “Right, well, your flatmate or not, that doesn’t explain why he’s here.”

“John is here because he happens to be a medical doctor, and I could use his expertise since the Met clearly continues to be woefully lacking when it comes competent investigators.”

“Oi!” Lestrade said loudly, defusing the building stand-off, “When I said I didn’t want any arguments, that goes for you too, Sherlock.”

“I was simply –”

“I don’t care. You’re both adults, and in theory, you’re both professionals. Start acting like it.”

At least Sally had the decency to look chastised. “Sorry, Boss,” she said.

“Yes, apologies, Lestrade.” Sherlock said with a quick nod, then not bothering to enjoy the twin looks of surprise on both Lestrade and Sally’s faces for too long, started making his way into Julia Stoner’s flat. “Come along, John.”

 

* * *

 

Baker Street had to have had the narrowest stairs in all of London, possibly in the entire United Kingdom. Obviously that wasn’t true, but it sure felt true to John when he had Sherlock’s arm draped around his neck, his own around Sherlock’s waist, and he had to half drag the consulting detective up to their first floor flat.

“Ow! Careful, John!” Sherlock snapped just as they were taking the last step up onto the landing.

John had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping back. Sherlock was tired, and his leg no doubt hurt him, so a little Holmesian snippiness was to be expected.

“Maybe if you’d listened to me and we’d come home sooner, you wouldn’t have overexerted yourself, you’d have been able to get up the stairs on your own and not been subjected to my ham-fisted assistance.” He said with a sigh, and all but dropped Sherlock onto the couch, whilst still remaining mindful of the numpty’s leg.

“Overexert myself? I didn’t overexert myself.”

“No, you’re right, you didn’t. You forgot you were on crutches, tried to climb in the victim’s bathtub, and nearly cracked your head open.”

“John, I needed to get a look at her shower soaps, and it wasn’t nearly as dramatic as you’re making it sound. I would have been fine, I am fine. You’re exaggerating.

“I’m really not. If Greg and I hadn’t been there to catch you, you would have fallen flat on your face. That was a rather impressive little pirouette you did when trying to catch yourself, though.” John added with a chuckle.

“I was fine.” Sherlock grumbled, and the petulant, almost childish, little frown on his face was enough to evaporate any annoyance John may have felt towards his stubborn flatmate.

Despite what he tried to claim, it was clear as day that Sherlock wasn’t entirely fine. When he closed one of their cold cases, he always seemed to want to fidget and hobble around the flat for a bit, probably to let off the little burst of adrenaline he got from a solve. Sherlock should have been bouncing off the walls after solving a fresh murder – Julia Stoner’s stepfather was the head of a cosmetics company and was slowly poisoning her by way of tainted ‘test samples’, all in the hopes of getting her inheritance before she wed her fiancé.  Or he should have started testing the samples John saw him nick, but instead, he hadn’t moved from the spot on the couch where John left him, his head was thrown back against the back of the couch, his eyes were shut tight, his teeth clenched, and his hands hadn’t left his left thigh. Sherlock wasn’t fine, he was clearly in pain.

“Come on, pop your leg up on the coffee table, and take this while I order us something for dinner.” John said, handing Sherlock a glass of water and a couple of his higher strength pain tablets – it was fine just the once, John was there to monitory him. The fact that Sherlock took them without any argument was a testament to just how much his leg must have hurt.

 

The food arrived – from the Indian place with the garlic and onion naan Sherlock liked – and by the time they had eaten, it looked like the tablets had started to take effect. Sherlock was more relaxed, his jaw had come unclenched at least, however, John didn’t fail to notice him wincing and clutching his thigh every time he moved his leg.

Even though his own injury had only been in his head, John knew that pain all too well. Some days – before rushing into a house fire seemingly fixed it for good – when the cramping in his leg got especially bad, there was one thing that, it didn’t take it away, but it made it less excruciating, made it more manageable.

John let out a sigh, he couldn’t believe he was going to do this.

“Alright, Sherlock,” he said, dropping down next to his friend, “pivot a bit and give me your leg.”

Sherlock frowned, looking taken aback as John began kneading out the muscle. “What are you – why are you –”

“Because it’s cramping, and I don’t want Heather killing us tomorrow. Don’t get used to this,” John added in a mumble, “this is the only time I’m ever doing this.”

 

“Hmmm, _John_ … how dead-set are you on this being a onetime thing?” Sherlock asked in a low rumble of a hum, a good five minutes later. “This feels… _ah…_ this feels really good.”

“Not your manservant.” John said, hoping against hope that he wasn’t blushing, but strongly suspected he was.

“Mmm… No, but you are a doctor. Aren’t you people all about healing and helping? Because this… _mmm…_ this is definitely helping.”

“Maybe if you stopped pretending you’re a spider monkey, and trying to run and climb around whilst injured, I wouldn’t have to do this in the first place.”

“Maybe I’ll do it more, because I like this.”

“One time only, remember.”

“Spoilsport.”

“That’s me,” John chuckled, still feeling a bit of kilter. “So… poisoned bath soaps and a faked snake bite.” He said in an attempt to shift the topic. It worked, and soon all discussion of his ‘helping hands’ was forgotten as Sherlock went through the case, explaining to John every single thought and observation which lead to the next thought, and the next observation. He was… his thinking was fascinating.

 

John hadn’t realized how long they had been sitting together on the couch, Sherlock’s leg still across his lap, has hands now just resting on Sherlock’s thigh, until he noticed his flatmate’s head bobbing and his eyes drooping. The pain meds had been a bit stronger than Sherlock was used to taking, and though he’d probably denying if asked, they’d had a rather exhausting day. An active case after months of cold ones, and a not insignificant dose of an analgesic, was a powerful combination that could best the strongest of people, it was no wonder Sherlock was falling asleep.

“Alright, up you get,” John said, lifting Sherlock’s leg up just enough to slide off the couch and stand up.

“Hmm? Up where?” Sherlock asked, the words coming out more as a groggy groan than a coherent question.

“Up off this couch, and into your bed.”

“Bed? No, I’m… I’m f-f-f-fine.” Sherlock said through a yawn, whilst standing up and leaning heavily on John.

“F-f-f-fine my arse. You’ve been fighting to keep your eyes open for the past five minutes.”

“Just need some strong tea, and I’ll be alright.”

“No tea; the only thing you ‘just need’ is some sleep in an actual bed. It’s nearly half eleven anyway.”

“But I need to test Juliet’s soap.” Now Sherlock was just making excuses.

“And _Julia’s_ soap samples will still be here in the morning. You can test them all you want when we get back from your therapy tomorrow. If Heather doesn’t kill us, that is.”

Sherlock gave up the fight after that, proof of just how much he needed sleep, and John was able to somewhat easily guide him through the kitchen and back towards his bedroom. They had just about reached his bedroom door when Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned in John’s arm, his back to the door.

“Thank you for today.” He said leaning in close, his movements sleepy and uncoordinated, his voice only barely more than a mumbled whisper.

John opened his mouth to assure Sherlock that no thanks were necessary, but before he could say anything, Sherlock’s hand came up to rest gently against his cheek, and Sherlock’s lips were pressed against his. It was a stretch to even call it a kiss, a gentle brushing of lips against lips would have been the more apt description, but whatever you wanted to call it, it was enough to steal any words John may or may not have wanted to say. It stopped him from bloody thinking all together.

Before John’s mind had the chance to even catch up to what was happening, the hand was gone, and Sherlock was pulling back, breaking the kiss. “It was nice,” he hummed, his eyes half closed. “Goodnight, John.”

And just like that, John was left standing alone in the hallway, staring at Sherlock’s closed bedroom door.

What the hell just happened? Seriously, what the hell?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOO! Lips have touched lips. This is not a drill, people, it happened! Next time we see how our boys feel about the touching of lips, and we'll see what the morning brings.
> 
> I let John and Sherlock kiss (if sleepy, semi-drugged kisses count), do you guys think this should just be the start, or should I have them not like it and never try again? Let me know with your lovely comments, or I'm just flip a coin to decide ;D


	12. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you do when your best friend kisses you? What do you do when you kiss your best friend?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically the boys have a big ol' think!

Half two in the morning and John could not sleep. He tried every trick in the book; a warm shower, ‘four-seven-eight’ breathing, picturing his ‘happy place’ – his grandmother’s garden in the summer – and even listening to Ella’s calming playlist, nothing helped. Ironically, the one thing that had been proven time and time again to help him sleep was Sherlock playing the violin. But that right there was the crux of the problem; Sherlock. John could not stop thinking about Sherlock. It was hours since it had happened, and Sherlock and that kiss were all John could think about. More specifically, it was the fact that Sherlock had kissed him, and he had liked it… a lot.

There was no point denying the fact that Sherlock was ridiculously attractive in an otherworldly, ‘these features put together shouldn’t work together but somehow on him they really, really do’ kind of way. And he had that voice that when he spoke it seemed to sink under your skin and you could feel it in your bones…

John had to stop, he had to stop thinking like that. Sherlock was his flatmate, Sherlock was his friend. In the few short months they had known each other, Sherlock had restarted and reshaped his entire life. After only three months, Sherlock had quickly become integral to his life, he had become the best friend John had ever had, and John could not think about his best friend like that.

John could not start thinking about how soft Sherlock’s lips were pressed against his for those few short moments, or how much he wanted to feel them again. He could not start thinking of how Sherlock’s hand felt cupped against his cheek. He could not start thinking about the way Sherlock sighed when he was happy, content, or curious – or those little moans earlier when John was helping to keep his leg from cramping. He could not start thinking about Sherlock’s laugh or the little v-shaped smile he got when he tried hiding how excited or happy he was. He could not start thinking about the way Sherlock’s eyes light up when he has an idea. He could not start thinking of all the brief and not so brief glimpses he got of Sherlock’s pale but defined torso when he helped him at the pool, or the feel of that torso pressed against his side. He could not start thinking of how Sherlock looked after his therapy sessions, cheeks flushed, sweat dotting his hairline giving his face a faint glow. And John could definitely not start thinking about how Sherlock’s sigh, laugh, smile, bright eyes, pale torso, or exercised flushed face had, at times, flashed through his mind at some more _inopportune_ moments. Plenty of people he knew or had known, popped into his head during those moments. It didn’t mean anything. And the fact that Sherlock may or may not have popped in more and more often as of late, well, that was just because he spent so much time with Sherlock. It wasn’t like he… he couldn’t… he….

Oh shit.

He had feelings for Sherlock. He had just talked himself through his own damn epiphany. While trying to rationalize and ignore what had happened, he had made himself see that he had actual feelings for his best friend and flatmate.

Simply being attracted to Sherlock was one thing, he could easily deal with that, the world was full of attractive people, but to have genuine feelings for him… he was really fucked this time.

It wasn’t like anything could actually happen between them. Right from the beginning Sherlock had made it pretty clear that he was committed to his work. And even if he were interested in dating, he’d surely have his pick of men, John would hardly be his first choice. Prematurely aged, with one too many scars – both figurative and literal – John was hardly anyone’s first choice, let alone someone like Sherlock. He probably wouldn’t even make it in the top twenty.

Sherlock obviously didn’t mean anything by the kiss, he couldn’t have. He probably deduced John’s feelings in any one of a million different little ways, and the kiss was just the result of some misplaced sense of gratitude. No, Sherlock was half asleep and come morning, he was going realize what had happened, and John was going to have to suffer the awkward conversation of _‘I’m sorry, but kissing you was a horrible mistake. I’m not interested in a relationship with you. I don’t return your feelings, so please don’t allow them to get in the way.’_ Or worse still, Sherlock may fear John incapable of keeping his feelings in check, and request John move out.

Well, he was just going to have to ensure that his newly discovered feelings weren’t going to be an issue. He was going to force himself to get some sleep, and in the morning, he’d play off the kiss as nothing, that it had no effect on him what so ever. He could do this, he’d developed feelings for people who were off limits before, and his feelings for Sherlock, like those, would pass with time. He could do this.

Perhaps it wasn’t a warm shower he needed to get to sleep after all, but a cold one.

Shit.

~***~

He had been right, the next morning was incredibly awkward. When he came down the stairs, John found Sherlock already awake and sitting at the kitchen table in front of his microscope, probably testing the soap samples from the night before.

Taking a deep breath, John walked into the kitchen just like he did every other day. He just had to act normal, as if nothing had changed, he could do this.

“I’m guessing you didn’t make yourself anything for breakfast, did you?” He asked, sounding, at least to his own ears, fairly casual. Maybe he really could do this.

“Have I ever made myself breakfast?” Sherlock replied, still staring defiantly into the eyepiece of the microscope.

“True,” John murmured, and added two more eggs to the frying pan.

Sitting across from each other at the sitting room desk, they ate their breakfast in silence. John was just starting to think that perhaps Sherlock didn’t remember what happened the night before – he had been very groggy – when he heard Sherlock clear his throat. Looking up, he saw Sherlock staring him, a look of nervous trepidation on his face. Dammit.

“Listen, John,” he started, his voice sounding unsure. Sherlock was hardly ever unsure about anything. “about… about what I did last night….”

“It’s alright, we don’t have to –”

“Yes, John, we do. I need to apologize.”

John frowned. That didn’t make any sense. “Apologize? Apologize for what?”

“You know what.” Was Sherlock blushing? “For what I did… for… for kissing you,” he mumbled, looking down at his plate, only the crust from his toast remaining.

“You really don’t need to do that, it’s alright.” More than alright, but John couldn’t say that.

Sherlock’s head snapped up, his face was blank, all traces of any earlier hesitance gone. “That’s decent of you to say, but yes, I do need to apologize,” he said. “The pills you gave me were stronger than I anticipated, and in conjunction with the post-case fatigue, I wasn’t thinking clearly. My actions were inappropriate.”

“It’s really not a big deal, Sherlock. Honestly, it’s alright.” John really didn’t want to talk about this. It seemed like Sherlock wasn’t aware of John’s newly discovered true feelings – small mercies – but the more Sherlock pushed the issue, the greater the chance of John accidentally saying something incriminating he couldn’t take back. Or worse, doing something he couldn’t take back.

Sherlock, however, wasn’t listening and continued. “I never intended to make things awkward between us, nor do I want you to be uncomfortable.”

“I know you don’t, and I’m not.”

“Which is why I think it’s best,” here it came… “that we should just forget it ever happened.”

Oh. That… that wasn’t what John was expecting.

"Forget it happened?”

“Yes. I understand that the normal human brain can’t delete things at will, but perhaps with time it can be forgotten.”

John took another deep breath, and plastered what was sure to have been a truly unconvincing smile on his face. “Consider it forgotten.”

Yeah, like that could ever happen. The fact that he had been kissed by Sherlock Holmes, and knowing that he’d never get to kiss him again, was probably going to be the only thing he’d think about until he was old and grey. The feel of Sherlock’s lips would be the only memory to remain when everything else slips away, haunting him, taunting him. But anything beyond friendship was obviously not what Sherlock wanted, so John would just have to deal with it. Sherlock’s friendship was too important to mess up with what was probably only a passing crush.

“You will still come with me, won’t you?” Oh, Sherlock was still talking.

“Sorry, I got lost for a second. Come where?”

“To my physical therapy. I find you… I find your presence there indispensable.” Sherlock’s eyes were wide, he looked worried, he thought of John, John’s presence, as indispensable. John felt his chest tighten a fraction. That was not helping matters.

“Of course I’ll still come with you. Can’t have you slacking, now can we.” He said, this time the smile was far more genuine.

“Good. And cases for Lestrade? You proved surprisingly helpful yesterday.”

John laughed. “Surprisingly helpful. I’m flattered.”

“You know what I meant.”

“Yeah, I do. And yes, I’ll tag along on cases when you need me.”

Sherlock grinned at him, and John grinned back. He could do this, he could live with just being friends with the most astonishing human being on the planet.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had managed to accomplish some truly impressive things in his thirty-three years; overcoming a cocaine addiction, single-handedly dismantling an American drug cartel, and surviving a shared childhood with Mycroft just to name a few. However, addiction, mafiosos, and Mycroft proved to be nothing compared to having to forget that he’d kissed John Watson. Having to forget the feeling of John’s lips against his might just have been the very first impossible task Sherlock had ever encountered. And unlike getting clean, taking down a dangerous crime lord, or making it through adolescence, forgetting John’s kiss was one task Sherlock didn’t really want to accomplish, which made it all the more troublesome. He hadn’t even been aware he’d wanted to kiss John until he was doing it, and since doing it… well, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to do it again. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t the first think he thought of in the mornings and the last thing he thought of at night.

It just didn’t make any sense. John was handsome in a safe, everyman sort of way. And yes, Sherlock had even been aware that John was attractive – he was still able to appreciate attractive men and other aesthetically pleasing things after all – but it had been so long since he’d been attracted to someone for more than a fleeting moment, that he’d completely missed it. Frankly, he’d thought he’d lost the ability to be attracted to someone else like that, in that way, when he kicked the drugs. But no, he was attracted to John, more than attracted, and it had taken kissing him to realize it. Some great detective he was.

What made matters worse, however, was that John was not making it easy for him to forget about the kiss and ignore his new-found attraction. The weather had improved, and John had apparently decided to start a fitness regime, namely going out for runs almost every day. Now normally Sherlock paid no mind to the exercise habits of others, but this, like almost everything to do with John Watson, this was an entirely different story. Everyday John would return to the flat after his run, his hair would be windswept, his cheeks tinged pink, and the healthy sweat he’d managed to work up would cause his old army or Bart’s t-shirt to cling to his chest in the most distracting way.

To say that Sherlock found it difficult to concentrate on anything other than fresh from a run John – collapsed in his chair, or standing before the open refrigerator drinking a bottle of water, or doing anything really – would have been a gross understatement. In those moments, Sherlock wanted to abandon whatever experiment or case he had before him, and simply pull John on top of him, or press John up against the nearest wall, bury his face just under John’s jaw, and just… Honestly, sometimes he hated John for reawakening his long dormant libido.

Then there was the nagging worry that John knew, that he had somehow deduced what was going on in Sherlock’s head and… other areas. Ever since that night and their conversation the next morning where they decided to forget anything ever happened, Sherlock had caught John looking at him every so often, only to look away as soon as Sherlock noticed and looked back. He was probably afraid Sherlock was going to jump him or something equally as base. But John had absolutely nothing to fear; as tenuous as it was, Sherlock still had some level of control over himself. He did have access to showers and the locked privacy of his own bedroom, after all.

Sherlock’s one saving grace was the cases. Since Julia Stoner’s murder, Lestrade had started calling him in on cases again. With fresh clues to hunt down and active criminals to catch, he was sufficiently distracted from the living, breathing distraction that was John Watson. Most of the time John actually came along to the crime scenes with him, but the cases were still enough to keep Sherlock’s focus where it ought to be – on the victim’s body, and not John’s. An added bonus was that John proved to be a quite invaluable assistant, his comments still sparking moment of clarity for Sherlock, and he was able to do most of the leg work whilst Sherlock’s leg was still out of commission. Getting someone else to do his leg work, Sherlock cringed at how much he sounded like Mycroft.

John’s invaluably was just one more reason Sherlock had to get a handle on his attraction. He would not lose his first true friend, and someone who had quickly become indispensable to The Work. He could not lose John because of something so silly and common as ‘feelings’. But he was Sherlock Holmes, he had overcome cocaine, drug runners, murderers, and meddlesome older brothers, he was not going to allow himself to be bested by an ex-army doctor and his own hormones. He could do this, he could get over John Watson – despite how much he rather fancied the idea of getting under him. Shit, he had to stop thinking like that.

What he wouldn’t give for a crime lord with a penchant for beheading enemies right about now, that he knew how to deal with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you just love how stupid and oblivious they are? Each pining without the realizing the other is in exactly that same boat. I know I do!
> 
> We're inching ever closer to the end, but there are a few more chapters of oblivious, pining slow burn to enjoy (hopefully enjoy) 
> 
> The cold has well and truly set in in my neck of the woods. I have hot chocolate to warm my bones, but I find that jumping around for joy is actually a better source of heat. Why don't all you lovely people do me a big ol' favor, and leave some comments that will get me up and jumping (or corrections that will make my fingers fly across the keyboard to resolve)!!!


	13. Enjoyable Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the end of physical therapy, this calls for a celebration!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucky chapter 13

“You’ve not always been the easiest client to have, Sherlock,” Heather said, “but you know what, I think I’m actually going to miss seeing you every week. You too, John. I wish all the family members who come along were like you.”

It had been nearly five months to the day since a burning house fell on top of him, but the time had come, it was finally the end of his last physical therapy session. If he were the type to sing, Sherlock would have broken out in song. However, instead of singing – or telling Heather he was more than happy in the knowledge that he’d never have to step foot in her place of business ever again – he merely nodded. After a not so subtle elbow from John, he also added a mumbled “Thank you, I appreciate all you’ve done for me.”

“Just doing my job, but it’s been my pleasure,” Heather said with a smile. “Now, I don’t want you thinking that just because we’re done here, that means your recovery is over.”

“Yes, I know.” Sherlock sighed, he’d gotten that talk from John right before they arrived.

“We can’t have you putting all your good work to waste, you’re going to need to keep up with your home exercises, and stay active.”

“I don’t believe that will be a problem,” Sherlock said, straightening his spine, and sharing a surreptitious look with John.

No, no matter how much he may have wished to the contrary, and despite what may have played out in his head during the darker, quieter, hours of the night, he and John were not engaging in that kind of activity. He was, however, back to nearly his regular level of casework for the Met, and even though John was still doing most of the heavy lifting and leg work, Sherlock was more active than he’d been in months. The crutches were long gone, and when they went out, all Sherlock used was a cane, and even then, he only had it as a safety persuasion, just in case he needed the support. Still, their little role reversal, John now chasing after criminals while Sherlock had the cane, was something John found unendingly funny. Well, John could tease him all he wanted, the cane would be a thing of the past soon enough.

“Excellent! Then I guess all that’s left to say is, good luck and don’t use another house as a blanket!”

 

“Hey, how hungry are you right now?” John asked as they made way towards the road to catch a cab.

“Not particularly.” The session hadn’t been especially tiring, mostly some stretches and a review of the exercises he was to continue moving forward. As a result, Sherlock was still satisfied from the breakfast John insisted he eat. “But I’m in no rush, I don’t mind stopping somewhere to get something for you.”

“I’m not all that hungry either, so I was actually thinking,” John said, lifting his arm when they reached the curb in what turned out to be a fruitless attempt to hail a cab, “that we just head back to Baker Street now, and later we can go out somewhere for an early-ish dinner. You pick, it’ll be my treat to celebrate the end of therapy.”

John wanted to take him out to a celebratory dinner, a special dinner. Like a date?

No, no of course John wasn’t asking him on a date. It was just dinner. They’d gone out to eat plenty of times, this was no different. And friends often marked special occasions together. No, this wasn’t a date, it was just two friends going out, sharing a meal, and enjoying each other’s company. Besides, if John was looking for a date, he certainly wouldn’t look to Sherlock. He’d seen the way people looked at John. John had no trouble attracting possible dates, possible partners. He need only say the word, and he’d have his pick of any number of attractive men and women. He wouldn’t be interested in abrasive former addicts who wouldn’t know a romantic gesture to save their life. No, definitely not a date.

“Alright. Yes, I’d like that.” Sherlock said, suppressing a smile. “And I think I know just were we should go.”

It may not have been a date, but that didn’t mean Sherlock couldn’t still put his best foot forward.

 

* * *

 

“Is there a restaurant in central London whose owner you haven’t solved a case for?”

They had barely set foot in the small, dimly lit Italian restaurant, before the owner, a large man with a greying pony tail to make up for his receding hairline, had hurried over to great them. As he personally showed them to their table, and in between his admonishments of Sherlock for not being by in months and failing to properly look out for himself, Angelo – the owner after whom the restaurant was named – kept up a running commentary of praise for Sherlock. The picture he painted made it seem like Sherlock was a living saint walking among mere morals, instead of the man who got him sent to jail for house braking instead of murder.

It was… nice, to meet someone else who appreciated Sherlock for all he did, and not just Mrs. Hudson’s motherly affection or Lestrade’s professional respect. Angelo’s praise also had a secondary benefit. With every shoulder squeeze, and outpouring of gratitude, the blush creeping up Sherlock’s cheeks deepened as he resolutely looked away from both John and Angelo. If he didn’t know better, John might have even thought that Sherlock picked the restaurant for this exact purpose, to show him he and his work were appreciated.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, do you have any idea how many restaurants there actually are in central London? It would be near impossible for me to have solved a case for every owner.” Sherlock said, taking a drink of his wine, the light of the candle Angelo placed on their table reflecting off the bottom of the glass. “And besides, I didn’t solve a case for Angelo.”

“Well what exactly would you call getting him off a triple murder charge,” John asked, “just a fun Thursday afternoon?”

“It was a Monday morning,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “and I wasn’t exactly solving the case _for_ him. Lestrade had called me in on another matter, and I happened to see Anglo as he was being booked. I overheard the charges, and it was obvious he wasn’t the murderer, and I simply informed the arresting officer of the crime of which he was actually guilty. Simple as that.”

“Oh yes, simple as that.” John chuckled, it looked as though he needed to get specific. “But fine, let me re-phrase. Is there a restaurant owner in central London, whose establishment you frequent, who hasn’t been involved in some capacity in one of your cases, or a case with which you’ve tangentially been involved?”

“Of course. There’s that chippy around the corner of which you’re so fond.”

“Sherlock, the owner gives us free chips every time we go in.”

“Well yes,” Sherlock smirked, lifting his wine glass up to his lips once more, “but that is only because I helped him put up shelves.”

John soon found himself giving up the fight to maintain some semblance of composure, and was laughing along with Sherlock, the deep, rich rumble of his friend’s chuckles impossible to resist. Almost everything about his friend was impossible to resist.

 

“No, no, I get that,” John said, swallowing a forkful of carbonara, “they needed to get him out of the building in order to dig. What I don’t understand is why he fell for such an obvious ploy.”

“You seem to be forgetting how remarkably dim-witted and gullible the average human being is, John.” Sherlock sighed. “And it would be generous to even call Wilson average.”

John snorted. “There’s gullible and then there’s believing that a secret society of red-heads exists, and by helping them archive ‘ginger history’, he could get a date with that actress from those galaxy superhero movies.”

“Hormones, the thought of sharing… _affections_ with an attractive partner, it all makes an already simple mind even duller.”

Attraction dulls the mind, lovely. John did not need to be reminded of Sherlock’s stance on affection and relationships.

“I’m certainly no stranger to doing some pretty ridiculous things just because of a pretty face,” John huffed. Agreeing to flatshare with a man after only knowing him a week, for one, and then following said man to countless crime scenes, for another, he silently mused. “But at least I have enough common sense to tell me that ‘The Red-Headed League’ is complete shite.”

“And that, John, is where you differ from the average Londoner,” Sherlock smirked again, the light of the candle now reflected in his eyes, and in that instant John thought of all the wonderful, exhausting ways he would have liked to wipe that smirk off his face, many of which were probably illegal or at least severely frowned upon in more puritanical societies.

“While you’re still an idiot,” Sherlock continued, unaware of the more base nature of John’s thoughts, “you’re one of the very few intelligent idiots.”

Only Sherlock Holmes could make being called an idiot sound like flattery, John thought, chiding himself slightly. In the weeks since he realized he may have in fact, possibly, definitely, developed feelings for Sherlock that went a step beyond those of purely a friend who happened to acknowledge that his friend was attractive, he actually thought he’d done quite well keeping it all under wraps. His almost daily runs, which came in handy now that he and Sherlock were going out on active cases, had the benefit of burning off some of the excess tension and energy. While they weren’t perfect distractions, thoughts of Sherlock still often invaded his head in his more private moments, in general he had it controlled. The feelings had yet to go away, but it was manageable, or it had been manageable.

Why the hell had he suggested they go out to a special celebratory dinner? Yes, friends did stuff like that all the time, but they weren’t really normal friends where they? At least on his end they weren’t normal friends, he who was literally running away from inappropriate thoughts about his best friend in order to maintain some semblance of a regular friendship. He who ignored pretty much anyone who might possibly be flirting with him in order to spend more time with someone he couldn’t have – it wouldn’t be fair to anyone if he tried dating in the state he was in. But he wanted to take Sherlock out, he wanted Sherlock to celebrate this milestone in his recovery, and on the surface, it was no different than any of the other countless meals they’d shared. Their back and forth was the same, the snark was the same, the admonishments of gaps in knowledge were the same, but something felt off. No, not off, something felt different.

Perhaps it was the atmosphere, with the single candle on the table, and the dim light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, it was a far more intimate setting than some of the other places they’d gone. The seemingly knowing smiles Angelo was shooting them each time he stopped by to check in weren’t helping matters either. Also not helping was just how good Sherlock looked, a crisp blue shirt that perfectly complemented his eyes, under his ever present fine suit, his artfully tousled black curls that John knew for a fact took ages to get the ‘oh they just happened to fall like this’ look. Sherlock always looked good, but in the aforementioned candle light, he looked… well, he looked even better. He certainly looked better than John by comparison. Even with the bit of product on his hair, his best navy jumper, and the jeans that Harry once joked made her worry would turn Clara, John knew he’d never look close to being on par with Sherlock. Not that he had to look comparable to Sherlock, he didn’t have to look ‘worthy’, it wasn’t a date after all. Not a date, definitely not a date.

Perhaps getting over his feelings for the most astonishing human being he’d ever met was easier said than done. He’d just have to redouble his efforts. He could do that.

Couldn’t he?

“Well it’s nice to know that I’m intelligent for an idiot.”

“Oh, John. You’re far more than that. I wouldn’t keep you around if you were _just_ an intelligent idiot,” Sherlock said, and this time there was no teasing smirk, but a soft and genuine smile.

Alright, maybe John couldn’t do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was a totally date.
> 
> It's almost time, next time we see the build-up to the climax! (which should lead to many more future climaxes *winkedy wink wink*)
> 
> What loves cuddling soft grey cuties, eating cookies, writing about fictional boneheads falling in love, and reading comments from the world's greatest readers? Why don't you all send me some comments to enjoy! (Like how I buttered you up?)


	14. The Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-physical therapy, Sherlock's life is back on track, until...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love being vague

John was a bastard. John was an utter bastard, and Sherlock hated him.

Since the end of the formal physical therapy sessions with Heather, John had seemed to take it upon himself to ensure Sherlock did not back slide in his recovery. First thing each morning he had Sherlock do his stretches, then two repeats of the exercises, then depending what they did that day, he did another round of exercises around lunch time – John insisted he actually eat lunch as well – finally he had to do two more rounds and cool down stretches in the evening. Normally Sherlock would have taken issue with anyone telling him what to do and when like that, but it was John, and he looked genuinely happy when Sherlock complied, so comply Sherlock did. Within the first week the cane was no longer needed, and as time wore on, Sherlock’s limp became less and less noticeable. Sherlock started accompanying John to Regent’s Park, first on walks, then jogs, and then eventually actual runs. It was because of these runs – which he only did as part of his recovery, and absolutely not because of the way John looked in his running shorts and t-shirt, or because of what the wind did to John’s hair, absolutely not – that Sherlock came to the realization that John was an utter, hateful bastard.

“Come on, just a little further! Just to the fountain over there, then we can take a break to rest!” John called over his shoulder. Sherlock still hadn’t regained his full speed, so despite being shorter, John was able to outrun him easily.

“I hate you, do you know that?” Sherlock panted, collapsing onto the bench next to John, “I absolutely hate you.”

Laughing, John handed over his water bottle and slumped down on the seat. “No, you don’t.”

“I think I do. And tell me, why is it that you’re the one in charge? Why are you dictating where, when, and how far we run? It’s my recovery, shouldn’t I be calling the shots?”

“Well when you’re able to outrun me,” John countered with a smirk, “then you can be in charge. But until that day, I get to make the rules.”

“You’re a former army officer, only a little over a year discharged, still at near military fitness levels, I may never be able to outrun you.” He would, Sherlock had six inches on John. Still, it would take time, and Sherlock wasn’t sure how much longer he could manage having to take semi-orders from a John at near military fitness levels, before he did something regrettable.

“Then I guess I’ll just have to keep calling the shots.”

Excellent, just what Sherlock needed. “I really, really hate you.”

~***~

John was a genius. John was an utter genius, and Sherlock… John was an utter genius. Sherlock was sat in the back seat of an unmarked police car because John was an utter genius.

Five days ago, Lestrade called with a case. Ninety-one year old Adelaide Linddard-Weston was found dead and her home burgled. There were no signs of trauma to Ms. Liddard-Weston, and the medical examiner concluded that she had died of a heart attack, most likely brought on as a result of walking in on the burglars. It was hardly more than a routine breaking and entering, at most a five due only to the presence of a dead body, certainly not interesting enough to persuade Sherlock to get dressed and abandon his spinal fluid experiment.

Thank god John was there.

 

_“Did I hear the name Linddard-Weston?” John asked when Sherlock hung up._

_“The name Linddard-Weston was said, whether you heard it or not, I cannot say. Although, since you asked the question, I’m going to assume that you did,” Sherlock replied, resuming his place behind the scope. Now, where was he?_

_“Hilarious as always. But seriously, does Lestrade have a case having to do with Adelaide Linddard-Weston, the daughter of Samuel Linddard-Weston?”_

_John had gotten up from his seat in the living room to stand by Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock had to bite back the groan threatening to spill forth, a reaction due in part to both John’s proximity, and the fact that this experiment appeared to be doomed to continual interruptions._

_“I can’t say I know of her parentage, but according to Lestrade, an alarm went off at the residence of an Adelaide Linddard-Weston. When the security company arrived, they found signs of a break-in, and the elderly occupant in the library, dead of a heart attack. House breaking and a nonagenarian having a heart attack are hardly worth our time. Why do you care? How do you even know about her?” Sherlock had to admit, John’s interest had piqued his._

_“The Tears of Ceylon. I – Oh my god!” John was grinning from ear to ear, talking more to himself than to Sherlock. “The Tears of Ceylon. I can’t believe it!”_

_“The what of what? John, what are you on about?”_

_“The Tears of Ceylon!” John repeated, now looking at Sherlock, his eyes wide as if that would suddenly clarify things. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what the Tears of Ceylon is?”_

_Sherlock could feel himself getting exasperated. “Obviously I don’t, or else I wouldn’t have asked the question. Now, tell me what it is, or else let me get on with my tests.”_

_“I’m just surprised, that’s all. The Tears of Ceylon is a sapphire necklace that went missing about a century ago,” John explained. “It was put on a ship in Sri Lanka, but when the ship made port in England, it and several other pieces of jewelry were gone. The ship and everyone on board was searched but the missing pieces were nowhere to be found. Within ten years or so, the other jewelry turned up on the black market, but the Tears of Ceylon was never recovered.” John looked and sounded positively giddy, and Sherlock had to wonder if that’s what he looked like to other people when he got lost in a story._

_“Alright, and how is the disappearance of this necklace tied to the break-in and death of Ms. Linddard-Weston?”_

_“Because,” John said, his grin grew larger, and Sherlock felt that all too familiar flutter in his chest, “there was a cabin boy on board the ship, a Samuel Linddard, who within a very short period of time came into a mysterious fortune, and married the socialite Nellie Weston, even taking on her name to add some status.” How very progressive. “No one knows how he did it, but it’s pretty much assumed that Samuel was the one to steal the jewelry, and he made his wealth by selling off the pieces one by one, all except –”_

_“All except for the Tears of Ceylon necklace which, presumably, is still in his family, with his daughter Adelaide.” Sherlock finished._

_“Exactly! Apparently, Nellie was known for her sapphire blue eyes, so that’s probably why he chose to keep the necklace.”_

_A century old jewel heist, no wonder John was so excited. “But how do you know all this?” More importantly, how did John know this and Sherlock not? Surely if something this fascinating were common knowledge, Sherlock would have known, he would have saved it._

_“You’re not the only one who went through a pirate phase when he was younger,” John said with a sheepish laugh. “Priceless jewels go missing on the high seas, a necklace never seen again, it was right up my street. I read everything I could get my hands on about it.”_

_John wanted to be a pirate too… Suddenly Sherlock was flooded with images of what it would have been like to have met John as a child. Would John have wanted to be his friend then? Would they have played pirates together, co-captaining a vessel and making Mycroft walk the plank?_

_“If you read and know the stories, then clearly others do to,” Sherlock said, shaking his head, clearing it of pointless and impossible imaginings. “It’s certainly enough motivation for someone to break in to Ms. Linddard-Weston’s home, hoping to find the necklace.”_

_“And do you think it’s possible that they found it, that they got it? Did Lestrade say what was stolen?” John asked. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet by this point. If Sherlock were honest, he was feeling a bit bouncy too._

_“Just that the safe had been opened. He was going try to get an inventory from a niece who’s flying in from Canada. It could just be that they were looking for something that was never there in the first place, but it’s not… it’s not out of the realm of possibility. The necklace does have to be somewhere, after all.” Now Sherlock was definitely feeling bouncy. This had the makings of a ten._

_“That’s it, you’re calling Lestrade back immediately,” John said, thrusting Sherlock’s phone into his hand, “we’re taking this case.”_

It only took one look at Ms. Linddard-Weston’s niece’s face as she walked through her late aunt’s home for it to became clear that John’s stories were true, and another ten minutes of questioning to get the niece to confirm what they already all knew. The Tears of Ceylon had been in the family’s possession, and it had once again gone missing.

An investigation of the household staff quickly turned up the son of the gardener, Jeremy Arden, a student who made extra cash acting as a general dogsbody for the estate, and was known for being a bit of a loose-lipped braggart. Sherlock had barely gotten one question out before a frightened Jeremy spilled the proverbial beans. Two men he had never met before approached him, asking him if it were true that he worked on the Linddard-Weston estate, and what it was like. Not recognizing that he was being pumped for information, and without any regard for his employer’s privacy or safety, the moron told them everything. He told them what he did around the estate, what a hassle it was getting onto the grounds and into the house, and the clever ways he’d figured out how to get around the security measures so he could finish his work in half the time. He even went on about how he preferred to work when Ms. Linddard-Weston was away on her weekly overnight trips to Oxford. If only she hadn’t cancelled that week’s trip at the last minute.

Fortunately, Jeremy provided surprisingly detailed descriptions of the men who’d approached him, and it took Sherlock one day to identify the intruders, brothers Simon and Jason McCall, both with rather impressive criminal histories. It was another two days before he’d managed to track them down to a small flat in Croydon. From there it was a simple matter of determining their next move, and waiting for them to make it. Eventually that move came, which brought him to be sitting next to John in the back of an unmarked police car at near eight in the evening. They had followed Simon, clearly the brains out of the two, to a warehouse along the banks of the Thames where, if Sherlock was correct – and he was – the sale of the necklace was set to take place.

 

“It seems like an awfully huge risk selling the necklace so quickly,” John said from where he was slumped down in his seat, his body angled so his head rested between the window and the headrest. As a result, his knees brushed Sherlock’s, and their feet overlapped. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice, nor did he notice the small contented smile on Sherlock’s face from the contact.   

“He couldn’t risk being caught with it, or losing it,” Lestrade replied over his shoulder from the driver’s seat. “Their place isn’t exactly the Bank of England, is it?”

“True, but they had to figure the police were going to be watching every fence in the city. The rumored owner of a fifteen million quid necklace dies and the necklace goes missing. I’d at least wait a couple months, let the case go cold, before trying to unload it,” John said. “And there’d be no way I’d leave it in my flat. I’d set up some sort of offsite storage beforehand.”

“It’d be easy enough to use a fake name to rent a safety deposit box well before the robbery,” Sherlock added. “Just store some documents or valuables in it for show. Then make trips to the box every month or so, before and after the theft, to develop a pattern.”

“Yeah, something like that would work.” John said, sitting up straight so he was properly facing Sherlock. “And you’d have keep up the façade even after the necklace was sold. Better yet, takeout several boxes.”

Lestrade gave a short laugh, and Sherlock could see him eyeing them both in the rearview mirror. “It might not be the wisest idea to outline how you’d go about selling stolen jewelry, you two. I am still a police detective.”

“Please,” Sherlock said with a smirk, “if we decided to turn to a life of piracy, you’d never catch us.”

It was possible Lestrade said something in response, but at that point Sherlock had stopped paying attention. He found himself preoccupied with the sight of John with his head thrown back against the window, and the all too familiar sound of John’s laugh, the one that originated deep within his chest. It was infections, Sherlock was powerless to not join in.

When Lestrade rolled his eyes at them, that only made things worse, or perhaps better. Frankly, Sherlock didn’t really care which one it was, all that mattered was that he could add stakeouts to the list of things that John’s presence made better.

 

Things soon grew quiet, John was jotting down notes of some sort – obviously for when he wrote up the case for the blog – and Lestrade kept staring out the window, not even looking away as he reached into a bag of crisps over and over. Sherlock was just feeling himself start to go stir crazy from the wait, when DI’s phone pinged with a text.

“Donavan just spotted a black Range Rover entering the yard. It’s heading our way.”

Sure enough, a minute and a half later, the Range Rover turned the corner and McCall flashed his lights. This was it. Finally, something interesting.

“Remember, we have to wait until the hand off before moving in.”

Lestrade was still talking, but Sherlock had stopped listening. McCall had just greeted the other driver when it appeared he got a phone call. Something wasn’t right. The fence ran back to his car, and McCall, who had only been on the phone for not even thirty seconds, was looking around wildly. They’d been tipped off.

“They know,” was all Sherlock managed to say before bolting from the car, not even bothering to wait for a response or to see if Lestrade and John were following him. If they lost McCall now, he and his brother would surely go to ground, and it could be weeks before Sherlock found them again.

Probably sensing the movement, McCall’s head turned. For a few seconds he remained motionless, his eyes locked on Sherlock, then, as expected, he took off running. Running at a full sprint, McCall was fast, incredibly fast, but Sherlock knew that he was faster, that he could catch the jewel thief stroke accidental murderer, he knew he would catch him.   

The pavement beneath his feet, the warm summer breeze on his face, Sherlock felt invigorated as he passed warehouse after warehouse. McCall took a sharp left in an attempt to lose him, leading him along the embankment, but still Sherlock kept on him. Each time his foot hit the ground, he felt himself gaining on McCall, just a few more seconds and he would have him. Just… a little… further…

Sherlock reached out, his fingers curling around the back of McCall’s jacket, when the man whipped around and lunged. It happened in a matter of moments, Sherlock caught McCall by the upper arms, McCall struggled, tried to pull away, his eyes grew wide, his mouth opening in a silent gasp, his hands come up to grasp Sherlock by the elbows, and suddenly Sherlock felt an unpleasant swoop in his gut.

He was falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNN. Yep, I ended on a cliffhanger!
> 
> This was also the last of Sherlock's POV we're going to see until the epilogue (that is if he even survived this fall to be alive during the epilogue). You're all just going to need to come back on Tuesday to find out about the landing. But until then, why not leave some comments telling me what you think will happen and how you think John will react. Who knows, it may sway me to change my plan.....


	15. A Matter of the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when the one person who means the world to you, who is your world, topples over a ledge, and there is nothing you can do about it?
> 
> Well, that's exactly what John Watson is about to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The the thrilling conclusion to last chapter's little cliffhanger. Hope it satisfies!

John had just skidded around the last corner when his heart stuttered to a stop as he watched the bottom of Sherlock’s coat disappear over the edge of the retaining wall running along the riverbank. John stood frozen, unable to move, it was hardly more than a hundred meters. One hundred meters, that was all, if he had been faster, if his seatbelt hadn’t jammed – why the hell was he even still wearing his seatbelt – if he’d jumped that gate instead of gone around it. He should have been faster, he should have been right beside Sherlock, if he’d been there he could have…

John wasn’t sure how long he stood there stock still, stirring at the empty air when his best friend had just been, it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, when he heard it, the earsplitting shriek of a man yelling. As if struck by lightning, he was off, running faster than he’d thought possible towards the ledge.

Let him be alright. Please God, let him be…

“Ah, John. Excellent. Is Lestrade far behind you? I need some handcuffs.”

The stupid git was alright. Five feet down, staring up at John with a Cheshire Cat grin spread across his face, his knee pinning a yelling Simon McCall to the pebbled bank of the River Thames, Sherlock was alright, not a scratch on him.

“John… John… JOHN!”

Shit, Sherlock had asked him something.

“What? Oh, yeah, he was just behind me.” John glanced over his shoulder to see the detective inspector approaching, still a few meters away. When he looked back, Sherlock was still there, still grinning, John could breathe again.

 

John didn’t even wait to hear if Lestrade had any updates, the moment Sherlock handed McCall over – or rather, stopped pinning McCall and allowed some PC to take over – John dragged him over to the stairs leading up from the bank, and forced him to sit. Just because Sherlock looked alright at first glance didn’t mean he really was. The man was astonishingly good at ignoring and hiding when he was hurt… Well, to a point he was, John just happened to be better at seeing through the mask. John needed to be sure, he needed Sherlock to be alright.

“Straighten your leg for me. Good. Now bend it. Ok, does it hurt when I do this?” John asked, applying pressure along both sides of Sherlock’s thigh.

“John, you can stop.” Sherlock huffed out an exasperated laugh and tried to swat John’s hand away. “I’m fine, just a few scraps. And really, my leg is great. It’s a little sore, but there’s barely even a cramp. It’ll be fine in no time.”

“And you didn’t hit anything else on the way down?” John watched intently, looking for any one of the number of tells Sherlock didn’t know he had when lying.

“Other than the jewel thief I landed on? No. I am intact and in perfect working order, Doctor.”

He wasn’t lying. Well, in that case…

“What the hell were you thinking, running off on your own like that? He could have been armed for all we knew.”

“What was I thinking?” Sherlock frowned up at John, a note of confusion in his voice. “I was thinking I couldn’t let our suspect get away. And I knew you were right there and had your gun in case he had a weapon, which he obviously didn’t.”

“But I wasn’t right there, was I? I got held up, I only got here in time to see you toppling out of sight. And all for a stupid necklace, no less. Do you know what that was like, to stand there and watch your best friend falling and there being nothing you could do about it?” John felt sick at just the thought.

At this Sherlock smiled again, and actually had the gall to chuckle. “Oh John, you have to know it’s going to take way more than any fall for you to get rid of me. You’re rather stuck with me I’m afraid. Besides it wasn’t even five feet. I’ve tripped and fallen further.”

That was just the thing, John didn’t want to be rid of Sherlock. He never wanted to be rid of him, he wanted to be stuck with him from now until... “Well I didn’t know that, did I?” he muttered. “For all I knew, it was a straight drop into the Thames. You could have been gone, and I never would…” he trailed off, catching himself before he said something embarrassing.

“You never would have what?” Sherlock asked, sounding genuinely curious. Of course he heard it, and of course he had to ask. “John, what were you going to say?” He asked again when John didn’t respond.

“Nothing, it was nothing. I was just thinking out loud. Word vomit, that’s all.” John replied, turning to look back down the bank, towards Lestrade who was on his phone and some other officers were standing with a handcuffed Simon McCall. He couldn’t risk Sherlock seeing, couldn’t risk Sherlock reading the end of that sentence. “Come on, we should probably see what’s going on with them. See if there’s any sort of hold up.”

“Lestrade’s just checking to see what Donovan got from the fence and her sweep of the car, and if the other team has the brother, they’re fine. What were you going to say? If I had really fallen, you never would have what?”

“I told you, it was nothing” John turned back around to find Sherlock no longer sitting on the steps, but standing right behind him, looking down at him with that small crease he got between his brows when two pieces of a puzzle didn’t yet fit.

“Don’t say it was nothing, you’re upset. Given how we became acquainted, you have to know tackling McCall is hardly the most dangerous thing I’ve done, or will do. So what were you going to say, because it was clearly someth –”

John honestly didn’t know what made him do it, possibly fear of losing Sherlock, mixed with the overwhelming relief of knowing he was safe. Seeing just how invigorated and alive he looked; the pink hue from the chase still coloring his cheeks, the small hint of a confused and concerned smile on his face, definitely played a part. It was all too much, Sherlock, the proximity, everything was too much, and before he knew it, John had the lapel of Sherlock’s coat clutched in his fist, and his lips were pressed firmly against Sherlock’s, cutting off the rest of the detective’s questions with a bruising kiss.

Sherlock’s lips were… it was like before, but… better. It was so much better. Before, when Sherlock had kissed him, it had happened so fast that John didn’t really get the chance to process it, to concentrate and really comprehend what was happening before it was over. He’d thought about it afterwards, he’d thought about it a lot, trying to remember and recreate every feeling. But now… Sherlock’s lips, from which passed some of the quickest and sharpest words John had ever heard, were so unbelievably soft, no hint of dryness or any chapping. Sherlock’s lips were warm. For a man who looked like he was carved from marble, Sherlock was always warm, so alive, so human. Sherlock’s lips were plush. Sherlock’s lips were perfect, as if created to be kissed. Sherlock’s lips were… Sherlock’s lips were… were… still.

Shit!

Sherlock was still, he wasn’t responding. What the hell had he been thinking, jumping Sherlock like that? But just as John was about to pull away, about to think of some excuse, any excuse, it was like Sherlock read his mind, his fear – which John wasn’t entirely sure he couldn’t do – and suddenly John felt Sherlock’s familiar arms wrap around his waist, and Sherlock’s familiar hands splayed against his back. Sherlock was pulling him in closer, tilting his head, parting his lips, and kissing him back. Dear Jesus, Sherlock was kissing him back and it was like every first kiss, every goodbye kiss and kiss hello, every reunion kiss, every good morning and goodnight kiss, all wrapped into one, but better. It was like no kiss he’d ever experienced, and he never wanted to kiss any other living soul ever again, because how could it ever compare to kissing Sherlock Holmes? John felt Sherlock melt into the kiss, and John allowed himself to melt too, their lips meeting over and over again. No, no kiss could ever compare to kissing Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock’s eyes remained closed when they reluctantly parted some time later – though boring, breathing eventually become absolutely necessary – and those perfect lips were gorgeously kiss swollen. John couldn’t help himself and let out a breath of laughter as he rested his forehead against Sherlock’s.

“I was going to apologize for overstepping and promise never to do it again, but clearly…”

Sherlock’s eyes shot open, his hold around John’s waist tightening. “Don’t you dare!” he groaned, sounding almost like a growl. “Don’t you dare take this away from me. I have waited too long, I’ve wanted this too much, for you to never kiss me again. I swear I’ll frame you for murder if you even think about –”

Grinning, John tilted his chin up just enough to once again brush his lips against Sherlock’s. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he hummed, cutting off the mini-rant.

“I’m serious, John,” Sherlock breathed when they parted again. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about kissing you, I haven’t been able to stop wanting to kiss you. It’s been months now, you have no idea how inconvenient and distracting it’s been.”

“Oh, I think I have some idea,” John replied, a small part of him still unable to believe what he was hearing, “because for the last three months, every time I’ve so much as looked at you I’ve imagined what it would be like to grab you and kiss that ridiculously posh mouth of yours until you’re out of ridiculously posh breath.” Feeling unbelievably bold, John punctuated his point by running his thumb along Sherlock’s plush bottom lip.

Sherlock let out a shaky breath. “Really?”

“Yes, really. And like you said, it’s been very inconvenient and utterly distracting. I’m not sure how I’ve even managed most days.”

“And earlier, when you saw me fall…” Sherlock’s eyes grow wide, the light appearing to have finally dawned on him, “you were scared, you didn’t know if I was alright or not, and you thought…”

John could feel the blush creeping up his face. “I was afraid I’d lost you, and I would have never had the chance to tell you how I really felt about you,” he mumbled, averting his eyes as best he could, “yeah, something like that.”

“Why haven’t you?” Sherlock asked, that confused frown, that _adorable_ confused frown, back on his face. “Told me, I mean. You said you’ve wanted to kiss me every time you’ve seen me. Why _haven’t_ you done anything about it until now?” 

He was sincere, Sherlock really didn’t know. Just like that, John’s embarrassment evaporated, the tension was gone and he had to laugh.

“Because pretty soon after we met, I distinctly remember someone telling me that he was committed to his career and not relationships.”

“We’d just met.”

“I know, but then months later that same someone kissed me, only to then tell me the next morning that he wasn’t thinking clearly and we should just forget every that happened.”

“Oh John, why in the world would you listen to anything I say?” Sherlock said with a scoff, shaking his head, that teasing smirk John had grown rather fond of spread across his face. “Don’t you know I’m utterly rubbish when it comes to understanding emotions and matters of the heart? For the past thirty-three years, I’d been reliably informed I didn’t even have a heart.”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous,” John said, letting out a breath of laughter, “of course you have a heart. You have the most amazing heart.”

This was a matter of the heart. John bit his lip, he couldn’t let himself think too hard on that point, he didn’t want to get ahead of himself.

“I don’t know about amazing,” Sherlock mumbled, the most endearing blush coloring his cheeks, “but yes, I’ve recently discovered that I do have one. That don’t mean I have any idea how it works, however. You’re the one who knows how this stuff is supposed to go.”

“So what you’re saying is that this is all my fault then, us taking so long to get to here. Is that it?”

“Oh entirely. You should have spoken up ages ago.”

John laughed. “You’re a bit of a bastard, you know that?”

“Bastard?” Sherlock gasped, his mouth opening in poor imitation shock. “I will have you know that my parents were married by the time I was both conceived and born. Now Mycroft on the other hand, I’m fairly sure he can only boast the latter.”

“Right, not a bastard. You’re a bit of an arse. Is that better?”

“Mmmm… much better.”

Fighting back a giggle, John shook his head and slid a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, pulling him into another kiss, and shivering at the feel of Sherlock’s grin against his lips.

It was ridiculous and he knew it. The needed to talk, and he knew they needed to slow things down before they let it go too far. Given everything he was feeling, it could get out of hand very fast. It was pretty monumental what they were doing, moving from friends and flatmates to something decidedly more, their friendship was possibly on the line should things go belly up. They needed to talk, but John couldn’t find it in himself to stop. John was too focused on the feel of the kiss deepening, Sherlock’s tongue sliding against his bottom lip and dipping into his mouth. John was too focused on the softness of Sherlock’s curls, the roughness of the slight stubble on Sherlock’s cheek. John was too focused on the feel of Sherlock’s fingertips tightening their grip in his waist, as if giving John a most welcomed brand. They had to talk, and they would talk, but at that moment, John had to kiss Sherlock to make up for every moment he’d wanted to and denied himself in the past three months. Now that he was kissing Sherlock Holmes, he didn’t know how to stop, and he never wanted to stop.

In the end it was the sound of a throat clearing with increasing frequency, coming from somewhere behind him, that finally managed to pull John from his Sherlock Holmes induced haze.

“Long overdue as it is, and not that I’m not happy for you two, because I am, it’s been painful to watch you both dance around each other, you may want to hold off until you’re somewhere you can have a little bit more privacy. I’d hate to have to take you in for public indecency.”

They were out on a case. A jewel thief was being taken into custody, there were about a half dozen police officers milling about, and Lestrade was standing not five feet away, arms folded and fighting like hell to keep a straight face. Somewhere in between the terror of watching Sherlock fall, the relief of seeing him alright, and the intoxicating joy of wrapping him in his arms and finally being allowed to lay claim to those lips over and over again, John had completely forgotten where they were. The self-satisfied smirk on Sherlock’s face, however, told John that he at least was fully aware of where they were standing and just who was watching. Definitely an arse.

“Right, yeah. Sorry about that.” John mumbled, already feeling the embarrassed flush creeping up his face. He moved to take a step back, to put some distance between himself and Sherlock, only for Sherlock’s arms to remain firmly locked around his waist. The bordering on smug smile on Sherlock’s face grew even wider as his hold grew tighter, as if daring John to say something.

“You make an excellent point, Detective Inspector.” Sherlock said, his eyes never once leaving John’s as he addressed Lestrade. “It’s clear you have everything under control here, so I think it’s about time John and I be on our way back to Baker Street. Don’t you agree, John?”

“Baker Street. Yeah.” John nodded, his ability to form full sentences lost in the face of the pure heat of Sherlock’s stare.

With a wicked chuckle, Sherlock finally released John, and breaking their gaze, turned to a now awkward and slightly embarrassed looking Lestrade. “Should anything come up and you need us for something, Lestrade, don’t even think about calling or texting. We’ll stop by your office sometime tomorrow, you can tell us then.” He said, before reaching into Lestrade’s coat pocket and pulling out a set of keys. “And don’t bother stopping in when you come by to pick up the car.”

“Yeah, that’s probably the last thing I want to do. Believe me, no amount of help on casework is worth walking in on that,” said Lestrade with an overly dramatic shudder. “I’m sure we can manage the rest of the night without you two.”

“See that you do. Come along, John.”

John could only muster up a shrug and brief wave goodbye to the now openly snickering Lestrade before Sherlock’s hand closed around his and he was being led away back towards the warehouses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course he was going to be fine, I wouldn't do anything like that so close to the end of a fic. I'm not a monster. There just needed to be a bit of terror to give John the kick in the ass he needed. 
> 
> I know I'm the writer, and I was in complete control over these two and their actions, but can I get a fuckin' finally!?! These two numskulls took FOREVER to get their crap together and admit what we've all known since like chapter 4! Well, now they've finally kissed and are headed back to Baker Street. Prep yourselves, because next chapter is 100% grade A emotional fluff (just fluff, the smut comes in the epilogue). You're going to want to brush your teeth afterwards because I'm aiming to rot your teeth with the sweetness.
> 
> Because I'm the neediest person I know, please let me know what you thought of the final confessions (well, not final, there's still more to come in the next chapters). Drop me some of them comments, and maybe I'll let them have the happily ever after they deserve.


	16. Let This Be Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when everything you've ever wanted is within your reach? What happens when everything you've ever wanted wants you just as much?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slight delay posting this chapter, I have company staying with me for the next few days, so getting the time to edit and post was difficult. But I've made you wait long enough, here's all the sappy fluff I promised!

The entire ride back to 221B in Lestrade’s stolen car – _“We’re not stealing it, John. Lestrade knows exactly where it is, and besides, I’m going to leave the keys in the foyer for him”_ – passed in near absolute silence. The closer they got to Baker Street, the tenser John felt, not knowing exactly what was going to happen, what he was going to say, what he was going to do, when they finally reached the flat. It didn’t help matters that when they arrived and Sherlock parked – miraculously there was a spot right in front of their door – he was out of the car and into the building before John had even opened his door.

The foyer was empty, Lestrade’s keys left hanging on a coat hook just inside the door, and John could hear the floorboards creaking from up above. Sherlock was pacing. What if he’d changed his mind? Sherlock’s mind worked so fast that what if the short time it took them to return home he’d thought everything through and realized he never really wanted John in that way, that he’d just been caught up in the moment? What if John was about to walk into his living room and be met with Sherlock telling him that the kisses they’d shared not even a half hour before, got all the want and desire out of his system? After what they’d just shared, John didn’t know if he had it in him to go back to being ‘just friends’, nor did he think he had the strength to walk away from Sherlock.

Allowing himself only a moment’s pause, John took a single deep, steadying breath, gave his head a quick shake to clear it, and slowly climbed the seventeen steps to their flat. It was the only way to know for sure.

“Christ, John. What took you so long?” came a groan, and before he had even crossed the threshold, John found himself being pulled fully into the living room, and pressed flat between the wall and Sherlock’s firm chest, Sherlock’s thigh slotting between his legs, pressing into him, and Sherlock’s lips stealing away any possible retort.

With strong hands cupping the sides of his head, and long, narrow, violin calloused fingers sliding into his hair, John felt all previous doubts and fears begin to dissolve and disappear. Sherlock kissed with such fervor that the rest of the world itself began to dissolve and disappear. All that mattered was Sherlock’s lips parting against his, the sound of Sherlock’s whimpering moans when he slid his tongue into his mouth, and the feeling of Sherlock shivering when he snaked his arms tightly around the consulting detective’s trim waist.

So lost was John in the all-consuming need to entangle himself with Sherlock, that it took far too long to register that Sherlock had started shaking in his arms.

Pulling back from the kiss as far as he could given the limited space against the wall, John saw that all earlier bravado and fiery intensity was gone from Sherlock’s face, the Sherlock before him now stood with his eyes screwed shut, breathing heavily, and his cheeks streaked wet.

“Sherlock. Oh God, Sherlock. What’s wrong? What’s the matter?” he asked – begged – his chest growing instantly tight

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes still closed, his breathing still labored. “Nothing… nothing’s wrong,” he replied, moving forward to try to kiss John again.

“Yes there is.” John said, pulling Sherlock’s hands away from his face and bringing them to his lips, gently kissing his knuckles before guiding the still shivering detective over to the couch. “Talk to me. I promise, you can tell me anything. Is this too much? Are we moving too fast?”

“No!” Sherlock said, shaking his head wildly, his eyes now filled with a different kind of intensity, a desperate, confused, almost frightened intensity. “It’s just… Tell me this is real, John. I want this to be real so badly. Please let this be real, and not… and not just in my head.”

If he didn’t know it was physically impossible, John would have sworn his heart was about to pound out of his body, his chest no longer large enough to contain just how much feeling it now held. “I can hardly believe it myself,” he said softly, leaning forward to gently brush his lips against Sherlock’s, “but yeah, I’m pretty sure this is real.”

Sherlock let out a long sigh, his body visibly relaxing. “I’ve just imagined… well, maybe not this exact scenario, but ones like it, so many times… I just couldn’t be too sure.”

“And did you ever question whether they were real?”

“No,” Sherlock chuckled, “I always knew they weren’t real and so I’d just let myself enjoy them while I could.”

“Then that should have told you that this time was real.” John smiled, and feeling emboldened, rubbed his nose along the side of Sherlock’s before pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth. “Though I can’t really blame you for wondering. Grabbing each other in the middle of a crime scene, stealing a car to get home, and you pinning me to the wall. It’s all very Mills and Boon.”

“For the last time, John, we didn’t steal the car.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but that didn’t stop John from spotting the blush coloring his cheeks. “Lestrade saw me take the keys, and he’ll be picking it up within the next hour. Anyway, us borrowing it made the most sense. We had a way of getting home, and Lestrade was able to ride with Donovan to take in McCall. We did them a favor really.”

“Oh of course, we did them a favor. You didn’t have anything else on your mind, other than helping out Scotland Yard.”

The blush deepened. “Well, maybe there was one or two other things.” Sherlock muttered. “I’m… I am sorry that I let my insecurities ruin the moment.”

John frowned. “What are you talking about? Nothing’s been ruined. You didn’t ruin anything.”

“That’s kind of you to say, but we both know that I did. Back at the scene, and then when we got home… I think we know where things appeared to be heading, where things would have ended up had I not been foolish and got stuck in my own head.”  

“You weren’t foolish. You weren’t” John said when Sherlock gave him a disbelieving look. “If I’m being honest, it’s good that we did cool things down. I know I probably wouldn’t have stopped us.”

Sherlock slumped forward, his hands going to his head. “That’s the point, John. I didn’t want to stop either. I’ve been wanting this for months now, and just when I’m about to get it, I mess it all up!”

“Hey, look at me. You didn’t mess anything up.” John said, easing Sherlock’s fingers out of inky curls. “Grabbing each other at a crime scene and rushing home to pin each other against walls is great and all, but we’re not hormonal teenagers anymore who get carried away with things like that, and don’t think things through. We’re adults, we live together, we work together. We need to make sure we’re on the same page about this, and not just getting caught up because of the adrenaline and a mutual attraction. I want this, I want you, but we need to really know what we’re getting into before we end up where we were heading. And believe me, I want to end up there.”

“But I wasn’t getting carried away, it wasn’t because we’d chased down a thief or closed a case. I didn’t kiss you back back there, or ‘pin you to the wall’ as you say, because of adrenaline or because I feel some sort of physical attraction,” Sherlock whined.

Sherlock’s words were like a slash of cold water to the face. “Oh… Okay then.” John said, letting go of Sherlock’s hands and sliding down the couch a few inches. “There’s not any physical attraction. I… ah… I hate to say it, Sherlock, but you’re kind of giving me some mixed signal here.”

“No, John. Christ, that’s not what I meant.” Sherlock groaned, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the back of the couch. “I told you I’m shit when it comes to expressing emotions.”

John huffed out a laugh. “You weren’t kidding.”

“I meant it wasn’t _just_ because of physical attraction.” Sherlock’s head snapped back and he once again leveled John with the same intense stare he did right before dragging John back to Lestrade’s car. “The level of my physical attraction to you should be obvious by now. I meant that it’s more than that, more than just physical.”

Now John was legitimately afraid his heart was going to escape his chest, he had been in Kandahar the last time he felt it race like this.

“I can deal with something physical,” Sherlock continued. “But I find that I’m attracted to everything about you, and not just that I find you handsome, which I do. And not just for everything you’ve done for me since pulling me out of that building, the help with physical therapy, and looking out for me, all the stuff for which I will never be able to properly thank you. It’s all the little things that I would normally ignore, or would annoy me, that I do ignore and that do annoy me when it’s anyone else… When it’s you doing them, I like it. I don’t know when it happened, I don’t know how it happened, but it did. I just feel so much for you, John. Even the times when you do annoy me, I still like it, I still like you. I actually like when you annoy me, as ridiculous as that sounds.”

If John hadn’t already semi come to terms with the fact that he was crazy about Sherlock Holmes, that little speech would have clenched it. It was astonishing how so many people could think that the man sitting across from him with his eyes full of trepidation, hope, confusion, and unbridled adoration, was unfeeling, cold, or even heartless. Sherlock Holmes was mad, brilliant, funny, and amazing, and he had a heart to match. It shouldn’t matter that Sherlock had little time for social niceties or social conventions, anyone who bothered to take the time and really look at ‘The World’s Only Consulting Detective’, would have seen clear as day just how deeply he cares, and just how much he really feels.

John let out a shaky breath and took Sherlock’s face in his hands. “It doesn’t sound ridiculous at all,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, and kissed Sherlock again. The kiss was soft and slow, bordering on chaste as compared to those that came before, but it was deliberate. John tried to pour everything he felt into that kiss. He used that kiss to tell Sherlock that he saw him for who he really was, and not the façade he put on for everyone else. He used that kiss to tell Sherlock that he wasn’t alone anymore and that was all because of Sherlock. He used that kiss to tell Sherlock that everything Sherlock felt for him, he felt for Sherlock. And while it was too early to say the actual words out loud yet, John used that kiss to tell Sherlock that he was in love with him, wholly, completely, and irrevocably in love with him. When John finally pulled back, breaking the kiss, the look on Sherlock’s face told him that he got his message across.

“So, what do we do now?” Sherlock asked quietly, as if afraid to break the spell that had fallen over them.

“We take things slow,” John replied, tangling their fingers together and lifting their joined hands to his lips to once again press a kiss to the back of Sherlock’s hand. “We take our time, and we don’t rush it. We do this right.”

“And in the meantime? What do we do while we’re taking it slow?”

“In the meantime,” John grinned and used his other arm to wrap around Sherlock’s waist, guiding Sherlock onto his back on the couch before settling on top of him, “we lay here together and you let me kiss you until you’re as simple and as mindless as the rest of us.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “That could take you quite a while, Doctor Watson. I’m incredibly smart, don’t you know?”

John let his head drop, stopping mere millimeters from Sherlock’s lips. “You don’t say? Well, I’m more than happy to put in the time, no matter how long it takes,” he murmured, “if you want me to, that is.”

Sherlock, growling more so than speaking, surged up to close that last bit of distance. “Oh God, yes!”

  
It was well past midnight, into the early hours of the morning, by the time the roaming hands and exploring kisses showed to a stop, and John and Sherlock were left wrapped around each other, breathing together. 221 Baker Street was silent, Mrs. Hudson had already take her herbal soother and gone to bed, and they’d vaguely heard Lestrade come in to pick up his keys and leave again ages ago. It was like they were the only two people in the world, like nothing and no one else mattered now that they were cocooned together in the warmth of each other’s arms. It was the happiest John had been in… well, longer than he could honestly remember.

“I’ve imagined it a lot, too, you know.” John said, slowly carding his fingers through the head of dark, silky waves resting on his chest.

Sherlock hummed and pushed back into John’s hand. “Imagined what?”

“Imagined all the different ways you could became mine.” John blushed. It was ridiculous, of all the stuff they’d said that evening, all the stuff they’d done, he hardly needed to be embarrassed anymore. “Every time you said something clever or rude, every time you did something amazing, every time you looked at me and smiled or frowned or sighed or rolled your eyes, I thought ‘What if I pull him in to this broom cupboard and steal all that focus for myself?’ or ‘What if after this run, I just follow him in to the shower?’ or ‘What if the next time he hears me having a nightmare, instead of playing the violin, he comes upstairs and makes me forget everything that isn’t him?’ Almost every night, I dreamed about it, but I have to say,” he added with a self-deprecating laugh, “a race home to snog on the couch w –”

For the umpteenth time in so many hours, the rest of John’s sentence was cut off by Sherlock’s lips. There were certainly worse ways of being interrupted.

“John,” Sherlock said after the kiss broke a few moments later, “let’s never move from this couch. Let’s stay here forever.”

“Forever?” John chuckled, “You’d be willing to give up cases and corpses, all for an eternity here on the couch?”

“At least for the rest of the night, then. You’ve yawned three times in the last half hour, let’s just stay here… like this.”

“I’m not sure spending the night pressed together on the couch is the best idea for your leg, or for my shoulder.”

Sherlock, the shameless git, actually had audacity to pout. “But I like being pressed together with you.”

“I can’t deny it does have a certain appeal…”

“A compromise, then.” Sherlock said, a wicked grin once again spreading across his face. “We spend the night pressed together in my bed. It’s larger, softer, and has far better support than this couch.” Absolutely shameless.

John sucked in a breath. Here Sherlock was, laying in his arms, offering him everything he’d spent months wanting, but… “I thought we agreed to take our time with this, to take things slow.”

Sherlock nodded. “We did, but you know how I think, how I process things far quicker than everyone else. You know I do _almost_ everything quicker than everyone else,” he said, rolling his hips just enough to leave no doubt as to what he was referring. “But I don’t mean it like that, at least not tonight anyway.”

“Really? And how do you mean it?” John asked, running a hand up Sherlock’s back and earning himself a shiver.

“I mean, I’ve never been more comfortable as I am now with your arms around me, and I want to fall asleep like this. For years I’ve slept alone, and it’s never bothered me before, in fact I preferred it, but now… I don’t want to go to bed alone anymore. When I wake in the morning, I want to wake like this, I want to wake to you.”

“Sherlock…” John breathed, not quite believing he was hearing Sherlock give voice to everything he himself felt on a near daily basis.

“And now that I know what it’s really like, and not just what I’ve imagined,” Sherlock continued, and shifted to sit up. “I know I’ll never be able to sleep knowing that you are just one floor above me.”

John’s throat was suddenly thick, and it took several attempts to swallow down the lump that had formed in order to speak. “I thought you were the man who said sleep was a boring waste of time?” He said, his words coming out less than steady.

“I won’t be able to even _think_ knowing that you are just one floor above me.”

Still not fully trusting himself to speak without revealing just how deep his feelings for the mad bastard saying the most amazing things, ran, John instead brushed an errant curl out of Sherlock’s eyes and kissed every inch of Sherlock’s face – cheeks, chin, forehead, eyelids, eyebrows, and finally the plush lips he had been worshiping all evening long.

“Oh dear,” John hummed, “I’m not sure I would be able to live with myself knowing that I’d prevented one of the greatest minds in generations from thinking.”

“So does that mean you’ll…”

“I have a hard-enough time saying no to you over normal mundane things, after everything you just said, do you honestly think I’m even capable of saying no.” John sighed, then forced himself to look serious. “Although, there is one thing I need to know before agreeing to anything.”

Sherlock’s smile faltered, his eyes widened. “What is it?” he asked hesitantly.

“Your sheets, is it true they’re five hundred thread count? I am a fan of the finer things, and I could never be comfortable in something low quality.”

If John could keep one image with him for eternity, it would be the look of relief and smile spread across Sherlock’s face. Everything about that man was breathtaking. John grinned inwardly, knowing that it was ok to think things like that now.

“You,” Sherlock said, pulling them both up to standing, “are just going to have to join me to find out.”

Laughing, John ran his hands up Sherlock’s chest to rest them on Sherlock’s shoulders. “I can not believe I’m about to finally get into the bed of the gorgeous man I’ve been wanting for ages, and we’re just going to sleep”, he said, shaking his head.

“That, John, is because you are the consummate gentleman. It’s a quality rarely seen today.”

“That’s me,” John chuckled, “the diamond amongst the coal.”

“Mmmm, yes.” Sherlock hummed, his hands coming to cover John’s, “I, however, am anything but, so come morning, please forgive me should I give into some of my better demons.”

“The phrase is better angels, not demons.”

“I know,” Sherlock smirked, “but nothing I have in mind could be considered at all angelic.”

Now it was John’s turn to shiver, his head filling with delightfully sinful things. Sherlock really wasn’t making it easy to remain gentlemanly.

“Fine,” he said, “I’ll forgive your _demons_ , so long as you let me take you on a proper date. I’m talking about a sit-down dinner, sharing dessert, holding hands as we walk in the park, kind of date. It’s going to be the whole shebang.”

“Yes, alright, you have a deal.” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes with a sigh. However, there was still that brilliant smile and faint blush that told John that the idea of a proper date was not the least bit unwelcomed. “Now go get changed, and if you’re not back here in three minutes, I’m coming up there and dragging you back down myself, regardless of whether you’re ready or not.” He commanded, pushing John towards the stairs.

As it turned out, John was back downstairs in two and a half. In five minutes, he was sliding under the covers to join Sherlock. Within a half hour, he was asleep with Sherlock’s arm tucked around his waist, Sherlock’s head on his chest, the taste of Sherlock’s kisses on his lips, and the warmth of the words they’d shared settled safely around his heart. John never slept better than he did that night, because he knew that come morning, his life with Sherlock – truly _with_ Sherlock – would begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleeping soundly, completely in love. Is there anything better for our boys? All that's left is epilogue where we find out if these two crazy kids can make a relationship work, and get just a peek at some of those better demons Sherlock was talking about (which should be a hint that these two crazy kids to make it work ;) )
> 
> Make it difficult for me to hide my fic writing from my company, by sending me some comments that will no doubt put a big dopey smile on my face!!


	17. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Met because of an explosion, moved in together to avoid an interfering older brother, and got together on the banks of the Thames after catching a jewel thief. With a courtship like that, can the relationship work?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, apologies for the delay. Here's that dash of smut I've been promising since the beginning as we look a bit ahead into the lives of John and Sherlock. Enjoy!

> **A Love Born in Fire**
> 
> By Kitty Riley
> 
> _Mr. William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson, both of London, were married last Saturday, nearly two years to the day since they first met. The ceremony was a small, private affair, attended by only the couple’s closest family and friends. To avoid any crashers or unwanted paparazzi, the time and location of the ceremony was kept under strict wraps, much to the chagrin of the press. Similarly, the location, or locations, of their honeymoon is a closely held secret, though if this reporter were to hazard a guess, given the time of year, it’s going to be somewhere warm._
> 
> _The names Sherlock Holmes and John Watson may be familiar to many due in part to their recovery of the legendary ‘Tears of Ceylon’ reckless, which last year was returned to the people of Sri Lanka. Other’s may be familiar with the duo due to the recent notoriety of Dr. Watson’s blog in which he chronicles their exploits for the London Metropolitan Police and private clients alike. While their names and many of their adventures are known, very few are aware of the origins of London’s top crime solving couple’s love story. It all started, shockingly enough, with a series of explosions in the Lambeth area of London…_

 

“I can not believe we actually agreed to such an inane article.” Sherlock grumbled. They had been back from their sex holiday – two weeks together in a secluded little cottage on the outskirts of a small village on the Sussex coast – for not even a week, and they’d already been sent Ms. Riley’s overly sappy marshmallow of an article by almost everyone they’d ever known. Lestrade had even pinned it on every bulletin board at the Yard when they came in to review a case. Now the damned thing was sitting in a mahogany frame on top of their short dresser, staring at him, mocking him.

“As I recall, you didn’t need all the much convincing when your mum and Mrs. Hudson came to us with the idea,” came John’s toothbrush muffled voice from the bathroom.

“That’s because I thought you were going to speak up and spare us this nonsense!”

“What, and risk pissing off both my landlady _and_ my future mother-in-law? Not on your life,” John snorted, his head popping around the side of the door. “One used to run a cartel, and I’ve heard stories of what happens when the other ‘goes monstrous.’ I may love you more than anything in this world, but those two scare me.”

Sherlock felt himself smile. John loved him more than anything in the world, just the thought warmed him better than any blanket, fireplace, or space heater. John Watson, smart, funny, kind, handsome ex-army doctor, chose him out of everyone on earth to love. Of course, he already knew John loved him. They’d been together for over a year and a half, had swapped those three words within a month of that first night falling asleep together, and had been married for three weeks and counting; Sherlock knew John loved him. Still, that didn’t diminish the feeling he got when he heard John say it.

“They’re two little old pensioners, I doubt they could do anything to you, even if they were pissed off as you say.”  Sherlock said when John finally finished up and made his way into their bedroom.

“They’re still a Holmes and a Hudson, them being pensioners doesn’t change anything. But that’s beside the point, you’re the one who framed the thing, you couldn’t have found it too offensive if you did that.” John said, smiling at the framed article as he pulled out his pajamas. Christ, the man took forever to get in bed!

“It’s a public announcement the I was able to fool you into not only falling in love me, but to also bind your life to mine. Of course I was going to frame it.”

“Funny, because I seem to remember it being the other way around. I asked you to marry me, remember.”

“You did, but only because I tricked you into thinking it was your idea, but nevermind that now,” Sherlock replied, grabbing the pajamas from John’s hands, and throwing them towards the corner chair. “If you’d be so kind as to remove that towel, I believe you have some husbandly duties to attend to.” He finished, pulling John on to the bed with a growl.

“So soon?” John chuckled, already climbing on top of Sherlock and situating himself between Sherlock’s legs, nothing separating them but a terrycloth towel. “And here I thought I’d gotten all of that all out of your system during the honeymoon.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and yanked the offending garment off John’s still warm from the shower body. “You’ve said that every single time we’ve had sex since we returned from the sex holiday, and every time I tell you the same thing. So, for the twelfth time this week, my need for you will never leave my system. My need for you will only increase with time, and is now integral to my proper functioning. You don’t want me to stop functioning properly, do you?”

John let out a soft moan, and didn’t resist Sherlock pulling him down onto him. “Heaven forbid. We can’t have that.”

               

Sherlock gasped at the first brush of John’s lips down his chest, the first touch of John’s fingers between his legs; each time together was like the first time all over again. By now they knew each other’s bodies better than they knew their own, but still, that first slide of John’s skin against his, that first press of fingers, sent shivers through Sherlock. Sherlock knew exactly what it felt like to have John slowly open him up, one finger at a time. He knew what was like to have John kiss away the groans and cries as his body was stretched. He knew what it was like to wrap his legs around John’s waist, to hear John whisper “I love you. I love you, Sherlock. I love you” in his ear, to feel John slide into his body over and over again. He knew what it felt like to have John fill him, he knew the way John ignited every nerve, and unlocked unheard-of levels of sensation and pleasure. Sherlock knew what it was like to make love to John Watson, but just like the night of their first proper date, when afterwards John guided them to _their_ bedroom, stripped them both bare, ran his fingers along every inch of his body, and took hours taking him apart, putting him back together, and taking him apart again until both their voices had gone horse, every touch was like they were learning each other all over again. The desperation, passion, and devotion with which they made love, burned just as bright, if not brighter, the five hundredth time as it did the very first.

They knew each other’s bodies better than they knew their own, they knew each other better than they knew themselves. Without a word, John’s fingers slipped from Sherlock’s entrance, and their positions swapped, John on his back with Sherlock sat straddling his waist, John’s fingers outlining the thin white scar running up Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock could feel John’s length, rigid and hot, sliding along his cleft and brushing against his entrance. Sherlock’s own aching length stood straight, pressed flush against his stomach, pre-come leaking from the tip.

“God, I love you,” he breathed, and lifted himself up on to his knees before carefully lowering himself back down onto John, slowly taking his husband into his body inch by glorious inch. “ _Uhaa – Oh God –_ John, I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” John whispered, wrapping his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulling him down in to a rough kiss. “So perfect,” he moaned when Sherlock snapped his hips, forcing John in deeper, “so fucking perfect. My perfect – _oh fuck –_ gorgeous love.”

The room soon filled with the sounds of their love making. Sweat-slicked skin met sweat-slicked skin as their bodies moved and rocked as one. John’s hand wrapped around Sherlock, pumping him as he thrust harder and harder into his body. Their breaths grew short, and their moans grew deeper, until finally, with John buried deep inside him, Sherlock’s climax took him. John’s own cries and the sudden feel of John’s release flooding him moments later, barely registered as Sherlock rode John through the aftershocks coursing through his quaking body until eventually collapsing in a state of utter undone bliss.

 

“I had no idea when I did it.” John said quietly, turning onto his side and wrapping his arms around Sherlock, once they’d both come down. He’d deny it to his dying day, but Sherlock loved post-coital cuddling. Laying in John’s arms, the covers pulled up to their shoulders, slowly breathing together, their legs entangled, sharing quiet thoughts or just looking into each other’s eyes, it made Sherlock feel safe, it made him feel cherished, it made him feel loved.

“You had no idea of what? When?” Sherlock asked.

“When I ‘charged into that burning building with a total disregard towards my own safety’,” John said, paraphrasing the article, “I had no idea that I’d end up finding you, that I’d end up with a husband and a whole new life.”

“Ah,” Sherlock chuckled embarrassedly, knowing full well the bedside lamp did nothing to hide his blush. “Well, you know what they say, no good deed goes unpunished.”

John grinned and shifted forward so that his head rested on Sherlock’s pillow. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he murmured, running his fingers over the cool metal band encircling the forth finger on Sherlock’s left hand, “I think some do. Some even come with a reward.”

John was wrong of course, because in no sane world would Sherlock Holmes be considered any good deed’s reward. A necessary evil? Maybe. A pain in the arse? Definitely. But a reward? Never. No, Sherlock was the lucky one, he was the one gifted a life with John Watson, who was brave and kind and saved his life in more ways than one. But the way John looked at him, the way he held him… John saw him as a reward, as a gift, as someone worthy of love. Sherlock wanted to be worthy. Dammit, he was going to be worthy. As they drifted off to sleep that night, Sherlock made a vow, not unlike those he’d made three weeks earlier in front of friends and family, he would be worthy of John Watson’s love, he would be worthy of John Watson. He had a lifetime ahead of him with John Watson at his side and on his side, and he would be worthy. After a lifetime of sacrifice and good deeds, he would be the reward his husband deserved.

“I love you, John Watson.” He whispered into the rise and fall of John’s chest, and let sleep slowly drag him under, secure in the knowledge that he was exactly where he was always meant to be.

John’s reply came only moments later, pressed into the tangled mess of dark curls. “I love you too, Sherlock Holmes.” But Sherlock was already asleep; safe, content, and unconditionally loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we've reached the end. They of course lived happily ever after, solving crime, being ridiculous, and most importantly, being in love!
> 
> I want to thank each and every one of you who went on this ride with me. This fic was in the works for nearly a year, and sharing it with you all has made it all worth it. I loved nothing more than reading all your thoughtful comments, it's what keeps me writing all this silly stuff about silly crime fighters falling in love. So from the bottom of my heart, thank you!
> 
> I have a couple one-shots in the pipeline (one all but done), so I'll be seeing all you lovely people very soon. But until then...Thank you, thank you, thank you!!
> 
> Ellie/Jens xx


End file.
